


Watching The Watcher

by stillwaters01



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: 5+1 Things, Character Study, Christine Chapel is an awesome nurse, Episode Related, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Life in sickbay, McCoy is an awesome doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:53:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillwaters01/pseuds/stillwaters01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Kirk makes a decision when he learns Dr. McCoy isn’t taking care of himself.  Five times Kirk and Spock were called to watch over McCoy and one time they were already there.  K/S/M friendship and McCoy working as a physician.</p><p>(Originally published 5/29 - 10/4/10)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**1.**

 

It all started with the Nevalian mission.

 

The Enterprise had been in orbit around the dying isolationist planet for two days when McCoy finally called in with a report that wasn’t composed entirely of desperate, passionate ranting on what he _had_ to be missing.  Kirk had approached the screen warily, steeling himself for the new death toll and his CMO’s barely controlled, raging grief.  Instead, he found himself daring to hope at the excitement somehow outshining the bone-weary lines in McCoy’s face.

 

“We’ve got it Jim,” McCoy bounced high on his toes, sobering briefly as his eyes flicked off-screen at the sound of a monitor chiming.  Kirk couldn’t make out what the female voice suddenly said in the background, but it must have satisfied McCoy – the physician turned back to Kirk, scientist’s eyes lighting up again in preparation for the reveal.  “We couldn’t figure out why the virus wasn’t responding to the first two antivirals – even accounting for Nevalian body chemistry, it just wasn’t working.  Turns out, when you take a real good look at their immune systems, they don’t work through standard chemical and biological processes alone.  The healer here was carrying around some kind of wind instrument, and when I finally asked him about it, he said he uses it every time someone in the village is sick.  Thing is, when he blew into it, I couldn’t hear a damn thing, so I had Spock take a look at it, along with the acoustics lab and they found it produced a single, identical pitch every time, above the range human hearing can perceive.”  McCoy paused for a moment, a wry smile on his face.  “I swear I think the sound made poor Spock’s brain itch,” he chuckled, tucking his hands behind his back with a little bounce as he continued, “Anyway, I had Sanchez play that pitch in the lab while administering the antiviral to the simulated Nevalian chemistry and would you believe it?  It worked!”  McCoy broke out in a huge grin, releasing his hands forward again in an excited flurry of gesticulation.  “Jim, their healers have been using this instrument for thousands of years and the Nevalian immune system has become so entwined with it that a particular enzyme in their immune response can _only_ be activated by _that_ pitch!  I’ve never seen anything like it!  A single outside catalyst necessary for the continuation of the immunological chemical cascade – it’s incredible!”

 

Kirk hadn’t been able to hide his own smile at McCoy’s infectious enthusiasm.  “Great news Bones,” he let out a relieved breath.

 

“Yep,” McCoy had flashed that triumphant grin again.  “We’ve finally got the _right_ numbers going up,” his eyebrows knit briefly over pained eyes before a small, weary smile returned.  “We’re just lucky the affected villages had the sense to isolate themselves early on,” he sighed.

 

Kirk’s response was cut off by the sudden sound of a monitor screaming over a clipped shout.

 

“Dammit,” McCoy swore under his breath, bolting to his feet.  Kirk listened briefly to the physician’s fading voice rapidly barking orders before ending the transmission.

 

That had been two days ago.  Now, four days into the Enterprise’s medical assistance mission, with Spock’s report of McCoy returning to the ship laden with a grateful healer’s botanical pharmacy, Jim Kirk decided it was high time he sat his CMO down, poured him a glass of his favorite prescription, and watched McCoy’s face war between pleased blushing and weary eye rolling as he related Starfleet’s praise of their latest victory.

 

Kirk strode into sickbay, eyes scanning the room until he found Christine Chapel at the nursing desk, diligently packing another case of preset hypos for transfer to the planet surface.  He smiled as she held up an apologetic finger, lips moving silently as she matched the counts between the case and the PADD to her right. 

 

“Sorry to keep you waiting sir,” Christine sighed a moment later.  “Mr. Kyle is on his way to pick these up and if I lost count one more time….” She trailed off with a rueful chuckle.

 

“Understood,” Kirk laughed.  He nodded toward McCoy’s office.  “Is Dr. McCoy still up here?” he asked.

 

“He certainly is,” Christine replied, exasperation coloring her voice.  At Kirk’s confused look, she simply gestured him back toward one of the darkened isolation rooms.

 

Kirk smiled fondly as he reached the door and saw McCoy lying on the bed.  He was just turning to leave when the glint of the IV bag caught his eye.  Heart in his throat, he whirled around to find Christine approaching the room.  “What happened?” he demanded.  “I thought it wasn’t able to infect humans,” he said breathlessly, struggling to recall the virology reports.

 

“Oh no, Captain, he’s fine,” Christine jumped forward, rapidly attempting to soothe the wide-eyed panic.  “I mean, you’re right, it’s not the disease – just plain, stupid, lack of common sense.  Dr. McCoy apparently neglected to sleep or eat for the last several days and it finally caught up with him.”

 

“He collapsed?” Kirk asked worriedly, noticing for the first time the lax stiffness of McCoy’s body.

 

“About five minutes after he walked into sickbay,” Christine confirmed, sighing softly.  “I’m not sure how he was still _coherent_ being that dehydrated.  He’s got a temporary relief patch for nutrition until he’s ready to eat and we’ve just dropped him down to a maintenance rate on the IV fluids.  We started out with aggressive rehydration and his heart rate and blood pressure responded beautifully.”

 

“He’ll be all right?” Kirk sought confirmation.

 

“He’ll be fine Captain,” Christine smiled gently.  “I’m going to give him hell about nearly cracking that brilliant head of his on the way down, but after some food, fluids, and rest, he’ll be good as new.”

 

“Not sure how you expect him to rest with ya’ll yammerin’ on over there,” McCoy interrupted thickly.

 

“You know, Bones,” Kirk mentioned innocently, “I distinctly recall my CMO sending me mandated rest rotations for all medical and science staff involved in the Nevalian mission.  Last I checked, that staff, and that _order_ , included _you_.”

 

“Jim, we were right on the edge of the musical link, then there was the initial treatment phase after that and I couldn’t just….” McCoy attempted to explain.

 

“Take a nap?  Eat something?” Kirk suggested disapprovingly.  “Take care of yourself?”

 

“It’s not like I never slept,” McCoy tried again.

 

“The fact you can barely keep your eyes open right now says otherwise,” Kirk countered.  “Don’t try to tell me you got more than an hour or two the last few days, or I’ll get Spock to interview the rest of the planet side staff and find out for sure.  I’m sure his inquiries would prove most…..”

 

“Jim, I _swear_ , if you say ‘fascinating’, I’m gonna leave,” McCoy growled, moving to push himself up with his elbows.  Hissing at the pull of the IV, he looked to the crook of his left arm before scowling at Christine.  “An _antecubital_ , nurse?!” he grumbled.

 

“Well, if you hadn’t gotten yourself so dehydrated that I couldn’t _get_ any other vein, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, now would we?” Christine chided with mock sweetness.

 

Kirk grinned.  “I ever tell you how much I like her?” he asked McCoy.

 

McCoy rolled his eyes as he attempted to sit up further.  “Just remember, you have a physical coming up _Captain_ ,” he warned, before focusing on Christine again.  “We run out of volume expanders?” he demanded, shaking the arm with the IV in disbelief.

 

“I’m sorry Doctor, dehydration and exhaustion appear to have affected your memory.  It _was_ you, wasn’t it, that wrote an article just last month advocating the use of old-fashioned intravenous hydration in severe hypovolemic cases over modern volume expanders?  I believe you pronounced that the evidence, which _I_ helped collect, was _overwhelming_ ,” Christine smiled sweetly.

 

Kirk’s grin widened.  “How much I _really_ like her?”

 

McCoy sighed, looking heavenward dramatically before slowly moving his legs to the side of the bed.  “If ya’ll are finished…” he muttered.

 

Kirk and Christine were at the bedside in an instant.  “Where do you think _you’re_ going?” Christine demanded, one hand already on the physician’s shaking shoulder, ready to push him back down.

 

“I’ve got patients,” McCoy murmured weakly, blinking rapidly as his arms gave out and Christine and Kirk guided him gently back down.

 

“You’ve got the best medical staff in the Fleet down there Bones,” Kirk insisted.  “They can do without you for a few hours.”

 

McCoy opened his mouth to protest, but Christine firmly cut him off.  “Doctor McCoy, if you even _think_ of getting out of that bed, I will sedate you faster than you can say ‘standing orders.’”

 

McCoy’s grumble was softened by the obvious pride in his tired drawl.  “See what I have to put up with?” he gestured at Christine.

 

Christine smiled warmly.  “No more than what _I_ have to put up with,” she returned.

 

McCoy chuckled softly.  “Guess I can’t argue with that.”

 

“You’re not going to argue with any _thing_ or any _one_ until you follow your own damn orders and rehydrate, sleep and eat – in that order,” Christine folded her arms over her chest firmly.

 

“Yes ma’am,” McCoy yawned.

 

Christine softened.  “I’ll go check in with the rest of the team,” she assured McCoy before meeting Kirk’s eyes, nodding silently at the promise there.

 

Twenty minutes later, Kirk sauntered up to the nursing desk, stretching his back and looking quite pleased with himself.  “Mission accomplished,” he reported, glancing back toward the isolation room.  “He’s finally _asleep_ instead of _unconscious_.”

 

“Thank you Captain,” Christine smiled.  “He’ll listen to medical threats eventually, but I’m glad you came by.  It’s nice to know that at least _you_ can talk some sense back into him.  I’d rather not have to sedate him again.”

 

“Again?” Kirk narrowed his eyes.  “He’s done this before?”

 

Christine swallowed hard.  She hadn’t meant to bring _that_ part up.  “Once or twice,” she hedged.

 

Kirk sighed heavily, shaking his head at the darkened isolation room before locking gazes with Christine.  “I want you to call me,” he said simply.

 

“Sir?” Christine’s brow furrowed.

 

“Next time Bones doesn’t take care of himself,” Kirk said seriously.  “I want you to call me.”

 

Christine didn’t bother to clarify whether that was an order, a favor, or a thinly veiled threat of payback for McCoy’s judicious use of sedatives on overworked starship captains.  She nodded quietly.  “Of course Captain.”

 

As Kirk’s gaze was drawn back to his sleeping friend, the answer was written in his eyes.

 

…. _Someone_ needs to watch the watcher.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is based off a quote from the first season episode “This Side of Paradise” where McCoy offhandedly mentions that he broke two ribs in the past. The way he said it, combined with his gesture to Kirk and Kirk’s lack of surprise, always made me think that Kirk knew about that injury and that it must have happened during their time on the Enterprise. Ten pages later, here’s a potential back story. Nurse Mara Govannen is an original character from my story “There Were Days.” Thank you for your support as I explore this world.

_Kirk:  “Instrument malfunction?”_

_McCoy:  “No, I thought of that and I tested it on myself.  It accurately recorded my lack of tonsils and those two broken ribs I had once…”_

_~”This Side of Paradise”_

**2.**

 

 

The first time she calls him, it’s because four words from a bleeding Mr. Spock kicked a nagging feeling in her gut into clear, immediate need.

 

“The Doctor appeared…..confused.”

 

****

 

“Dammit Spock, how in _blazes_ did the scanners miss this?” McCoy demanded as he passed the rest of the triage assignment duties off to Kirk before rushing towards a desperately gesturing, blood-spattered Xalian in the distance.

 

“The scanners did not ‘miss’ anything Doctor,” Spock replied evenly as he weaved around a large rock before recapturing McCoy’s loping pace.  “The earthquake must have occurred in the time between the final scan and our beaming down to the planet surface.”

 

“Lovely,” McCoy muttered, blindly reaching into the kit at his hip for the pressure bandages he knew he’d be needing.  “I thought geology said this planet had never even _seen_ an earthquake – some sort of strange absence of tectonic plates or something,” McCoy’s brow furrowed in thought as he thrust the bandages at Spock, freeing his hands to root through the hypospray cartridges.

 

“An assessment that is now in need of considerable review,” Spock answered drily, taking the hastily proffered bandages. He glanced to his right as he felt Kirk catch up to them, nodding in silent agreement at the Captain’s wariness of the approaching cave entrance.

 

“And you accuse _me_ of understatement,” McCoy snorted in weary, bitter agreement.

 

“Bones, I’ve already ordered Evans and the rest of the team to stay out of the caves and unstable areas,” Kirk said, glaring at the cave as if he could intimidate the rock into revealing its intentions.

 

“Indeed Doctor, the chances of such a cave collapsing in the event of an aftershock…” Spock’s eyes were distant with contemplative calculation.

 

“Please, Spock, _spare_ me the odds,” McCoy pleaded.  “Believe me Jim,” he sighed heavily, meeting Kirk’s eyes with a quick sidelong glance as he covered the last few steps to the frantic Xalian, “I have no intention of allowing _any_ one to stay in that cave – last thing I want are more casualties.”  McCoy tucked the newly assembled hypos back into his medical kit, silently motioning to Spock for the bandages as he reached out and grasped the trembling Xalian’s arm.  His focus immediately narrowed to the panicking man in front of him.  “I’m a doctor,” McCoy squeezed the Xalian’s arm with firm reassurance.  “Who’s injured?”

 

Kirk and Spock began prowling the perimeter of the cave as McCoy followed the bloodied Xalian to a far bloodier young man lying on a stone slab in the middle of the hollowed room.  “What happened?” McCoy asked, pressing a bandage over the gushing wound with one hand, while running the medical scanner over the young man’s body with the other.

 

“When the ground shook, he fell onto that rock there,” the Xalian pointed to a jagged stone a few feet away.  “We cannot stop the bleeding.”

 

“Looks like laceration of a major vein,” McCoy murmured as the pink fluid continued to stream past his fingers.

 

“We applied xaqaui, but it did not work.  It always works, I do not understand,” the Xalian keened.

 

“What’s your name son?” McCoy asked softly, increasing pressure on the wound, eyes flying over the scanner readouts.

 

“I am called Xalqual,” the Xalian replied shakily.

 

“Well Xalqual, I’m called McCoy,” McCoy responded, frowning briefly at the scanner before meeting Xalqual’s eyes.  “And I’m not sure what xaqaui is, but I _can_ tell you that none of this is your fault.  The only way we’re gonna be able to stop bleeding like this is through surgery.”  McCoy paused as confusion overtook the panic in Xalqual’s face.  “I need to….” He sighed, trying to find the words, before looking over his shoulder at Kirk and asking the Captain to bring him one of the small sticks on the cave floor.  “Thanks Jim – just follow along, will ya?” McCoy asked, looking back to Xalqual.  “This stick, when it’s intact, holds material on the inside, right?” he asked the Xalian.  At Xalqual’s nod, McCoy continued, “there are vessels in the body like this that carry blood.  When the stick is broken….” McCoy looked to Kirk, who broke the stick in half, allowing sap to pool along the table, “….the material that’s inside comes out.  The same thing happens when the vessels in the body are broken – blood comes out.  The bigger the vessel, like the bigger the stick, the more that comes out,” McCoy explained.

 

Xalqual’s eyes suddenly lit up.  He took the two halves of the stick and placed them back together.  “So, this is what you must do to Xalquan?  To stop the bleeding?” he asked breathlessly.

 

McCoy grinned.  “Exactly!” he beamed, eyes sparkling.  “But I can’t do it here,” he sobered.

 

“Then we will go where you can do it,” Xalqual insisted.

 

“Good,” McCoy nodded.  That was all the consent he needed.

 

“Bones…..” Kirk warned, glancing nervously around the cave.

 

“I know Jim,” McCoy said hurriedly, “I just need to slow this down before we start moving him.”

 

“Can’t you just give him a shot of that blood-boosting stuff you use when one of us is bleeding like that?” Kirk asked, trying to ignore the ‘red alert’ pricking at the hairs on the back of his neck.

 

“Do _you_ …” McCoy bit off the rest of the retort, deflating all at once as he apologized.  “I’m sorry Jim,” he sighed.  “There’s a big difference between human and huma _noid_.  Just ‘cause they look like us on the outside doesn’t mean a damn thing internally – anatomically _or_ chemically.  My initial scan suggests that _this_ is his abdomen….” McCoy nodded toward what appeared to be the Xalian’s chest.  “The bleed appears to be in a vessel similar to our inferior vena cava, except that it’s where our esophagus would be….and don’t even get me started on those little lungs in the pelvic area….Lord knows what his body chemistry’s like – I can’t just go usin’ what works for _us_ on the boy.”

 

Kirk nodded absently as McCoy briefly glanced at the kit at his hip before coming to a decision.  “Spock, give me a hand here, will ya?  Put pressure on this for a minute,” McCoy instructed.

 

Xalqual stepped forward in alarm.  “No!” he shouted, as Spock’s hands reached to replace McCoy’s on the bandage.

 

“Xalqual, I need….” McCoy attempted to explain.

 

“He is alien,” Xalqual glared at Spock, as if that were all the explanation needed.

 

Kirk immediately recognized McCoy’s ‘I don’t have time for this’ sigh.  “Well, so am _I_ , it’s just not as obvious,” he pointed out, before continuing sincerely, “Please Xalqual, you’ve trusted _me_ enough to treat the boy – I’m asking that you continue to trust my judgment….and my friends,” McCoy nodded toward Spock.

 

Xalqual stepped back slowly, allowing Spock to take over.  “Very well,” he acquiesced.

 

“Thank you,” McCoy smiled wearily as he instructed Spock to put his full strength to the wound.  Pulling a hypo from his kit, he tossed Spock another pressure bandage.  “All right Spock, on count of three, let up.  I’m gonna try a local coagulant, then I want you to add that bandage to the other one and hold it there.  Don’t worry ‘bout pushing too hard, got it?”

 

“Understood Doctor,” Spock replied.

 

“Jim, soon as that’s done, we’ll move him outside.  Tell Scotty to get a medical team to meet us in the transporter room,” McCoy ordered.

 

“Got it Bones,” Kirk acknowledged, moving toward the cave entrance to call the Enterprise.

 

“All right Spock,” McCoy began.  “One…..two……three.”

 

Spock pulled back, McCoy administered the coagulant, and the ceiling attempted to meet the floor as the ground shuddered violently.

 

Spock threw himself forward, reaching to return pressure to the wound and protect the young Xalian’s head.  McCoy grunted as a chunk of falling rock glanced off his side, throwing him into the stone slab and across the Xalian’s lower half faster than he had intended.

 

A moment later, the earth quieted.

 

“Everyone all right?” McCoy called out over the settling dust, straightening with a hiss.

 

“I am not injured,” Xalqual returned.

 

“Spock?” McCoy groaned, reaching for the slowly shifting Vulcan.

 

“A graze, Doctor, nothing more,” Spock replied, blinking blood from a freely flowing scalp wound out of his eye.

 

“A graze my foot,” McCoy muttered, wincing as he pulled a coagulant-infused adhesive bandage from his kit, double-checking the label to ensure it was the ones he had tailored to Spock’s biochemistry, before leaning over to apply it to the wound.

 

“Doctor, I am perfectly capable…” Spock began to insist.

 

“I need both of your hands on that wound,” McCoy interrupted, placing the bandage quickly before pulling back with a muffled groan.

 

“Doctor, are you injured?” Spock eyed the physician suspiciously.

 

“Just got the wind knocked out of me,” McCoy grunted as he turned toward Kirk’s worried voice entering the cave.

 

“Bones?  Spock?” Kirk rushed in breathlessly.

 

“We’re all right Jim,” McCoy assured the Captain, glaring at Spock’s quickly raised eyebrow.  “Are you hurt?” he asked Kirk, giving the man a quick, clinical sweep.

 

“Fine, Bones.  I was outside,” Kirk insisted.  “I’ve already sent the rest of the crew back to the ship.  Can you move him yet?” he motioned to the Xalian.

 

“Yeah,” McCoy replied before beginning to protest, “But what about the rest of the injured?  We can’t just…..”

 

Kirk was already reaching for the Xalian’s legs.  “Evans reported minor injuries that can wait.  I won’t allow my crew to stay down here and put themselves in further danger, understood Doctor?”

 

McCoy heard the concern under the order.  “Understood Captain,” he replied, moving to Xalquan’s shoulders.  “Spock, you okay to keep pressure there?” he asked, glancing at the slowing trickle of blood sliding down the Vulcan’s face.

 

“Doctor, such a minor inconvenience will hardly affect my efficiency in this matter,” Spock sighed.

 

McCoy bit back a groan as he rolled his eyes with a snort.  “Of course, Mr. Spock.  I apologize.  Xalqual, follow us,” he said, nodding to Kirk and Spock to begin moving.

 

Kirk nearly dropped Xalquan’s legs at McCoy’s gasp once they lifted the Xalian.  “Bones, what….” He demanded.

 

“I’m all right Jim,” McCoy growled.  “Keep moving.  That coag shot won’t hold for long….least I don’t _think_ so with that chemistry….and he can’t afford to lose any more blood.”

 

Ten minutes later, Kirk was on the Bridge, requesting further Starfleet aid for the Xalian people, while McCoy was sitting Spock down on one of the sickbay beds for treatment as Xalquan and the OR were prepped for surgery.

 

“Doctor, there is no need to concern yourself with such an insignificant wound at this time,” Spock insisted.

 

“Long as I’m chief medical officer ‘round here, I’ll tell you _what’s_ significant and what’s _not_ , Mr. Spock,” McCoy glared, swallowing back a cough with a grimace.  “When you’re still blinkin’ blood out of that eye after fifteen minutes with a coag patch, _that’s_ significant.” 

 

“Very well,” Spock let out a long-suffering sigh.

 

“Good, now shut up while I clean this out,” McCoy coughed into his elbow before hunching over with a muffled groan, holding pressure on the wound with one hand while gently cleaning dried blood and debris with the other.

 

“Doctor, you appear to be having difficulty breathing,” Spock noted a few moments later.

 

“Dammit Spock, I _told_ you, I got the wind knocked out of me,” McCoy responded with a hastily cut-off sigh.  “I just need a minute.”

 

“It has been eighteen point three minutes since the aftershock occurred,” Spock informed him.

 

“It has _not_ ,” McCoy grumbled.

 

Spock’s eyebrows shot up.  McCoy may _grouse_ at his precise calculations, but he never _denied_ them.  He looked the physician over more carefully, brows furrowing at a red stain on the inside of the left elbow.  “Doctor, there is blood on your elbow,” Spock said.

 

McCoy’s harsh laugh ended with a strangled gasp.  “Spock, the way that boy was bleeding, I’m pretty sure I’ve got blood in more places than _that_ ,” he pointed out.

 

“Xalian blood is pink, not red,” Spock reminded McCoy.

 

McCoy frowned as he dropped the soiled cloth on the bed.  “Well, with this scalp laceration, it could just as easily be _yours_ ,” he countered.

 

Spock’s eyebrows shot back up to his hairline.  “Doctor,” he said slowly, “as you are so fond of pointing out, my blood is _not_ red.”

 

McCoy shook his head, failing to rise to the bait as he called Christine Chapel over to finish sealing the wound so he could scrub for surgery.

 

Christine took a dermal regenerator from the bedside cart and began attending to the wound with a soft smile.

 

“Nurse Chapel, I do not believe Doctor McCoy escaped the aftershock without injury,” Spock finally said, concerned eyes never leaving the physician as he crossed the room and began scrubbing.

 

Christine frowned as she passed the machine over the wound one final time.  She followed Spock’s glance, eyes narrowing at McCoy’s shallow breathing.  “His breathing?” she clarified.

 

“That and…..” Spock hesitated.

 

“What is it Mr. Spock?” Christine pressed, stomach churning at the anxious shine in the Vulcan’s dark eyes.

 

“I noted blood on the Doctor’s elbow and when I questioned him….” Spock frowned, eyes flitting back to McCoy.

 

Christine’s stomach moved into full-blown nausea.  This couldn’t be good.  She had never heard Spock hesitate like this.  “Mr. Spock,” she pushed.

 

Spock swallowed.  “The Doctor appeared…..confused,” he said finally, as if the admission, even amidst all the insults that flew between those two, physically _hurt_ him to voice.

 

Christine’s eyes widened as her gut kicked in full force.  Shallow breathing.  Hemoptysis.  Confusion. 

 

Hypoxia. 

 

She could only hope he wasn’t about to puncture that lung any further.

 

“Excuse me, Mr. Spock,” Christine ground out as she spun on her heel and stalked across the room to McCoy, shouting for M’Benga and Mara.  Grabbing McCoy’s elbow, she cringed at the perspiration beading his pale face.  “Dr. M’Benga and Mara will be doing the surgery,” she informed him firmly.

 

“What in blue _blazes_ ….” McCoy demanded before doubling over with a gasp that brought him to his knees.

 

“What the _hell_ is going on?” Mara shouted, running to McCoy’s other side, M’Benga close behind.

 

“Broken ribs hurt, don’t they?” Christine glared at McCoy, gripping his shoulder in surprisingly gentle support.

 

“Leonard, there is no reason to delay your own treatment,” M’Benga insisted quietly.

 

“I didn’t….” McCoy wheezed painfully.

 

“Stop talking.  Mara and I are going to stand you up.  Ready?” Christine cut him off.

 

“What….” McCoy struggled to understand.

 

“He needs oxygen,” M’Benga said.  “Do you ladies require assistance getting Leonard to a bed?” he offered.

 

“That will not be necessary Doctor,” Spock said, striding across the room.  “I will assist Nurse Chapel with Doctor McCoy.  You and Nurse Govannen are needed in surgery.”

 

Spock simply bent and lifted McCoy into his arms, eyes flickering in passing alarm as the physician promptly passed out.  Christine led him to a biobed, where she proceeded to grumble at McCoy’s poor oxygenation readings, high heart rate and confirmatory scan.  “He’s got two broken ribs on the left side, one of which caused a small puncture in the lung.  Decreased oxygenation from the pneumothorax and shallow breathing from the pain likely caused the confusion,” Christine explained as she put an oxygen mask over McCoy’s face and began setting up the osteo regenerator.  “I don’t know whether he was ignoring the injury or just didn’t realize how serious it was, but _thank you_ for pursuing it.”

 

Spock inclined his head in acknowledgement.  “Doctor McCoy _was_ extremely focused on treating the Xalian,” he offered.

 

Christine smiled.  “Well then, I suppose I can let it pass as yet another example of his unsettling dedication,” she sighed, setting the final adjustments on the equipment while willing the monitor’s oxygen indicator to stabilize.

 

“Unsettling?” Spock queried, finally shifting his gaze from McCoy to Christine.

 

Christine’s smile faded.  “Yes, Mr. Spock, ‘unsettling.’  Because all that brilliance and dedication apparently crowds out self-preservation and common sense,” she chuckled bitterly.

 

Spock’s eyes somehow managed to both harden and soften with resolve at the same time, while his facial expression remained classically, Vulcan-neutral.  “Nurse Chapel, I shall expect notification in the future should you find Doctor McCoy’s behavior ‘unsettling,’” he said simply.

 

Christine grinned, her step light as she turned toward the comm.  Another ally.  “Of course, Mr. Spock,” she nodded, eyes brightening as the oxygen indicator slid to ninety percent.  “If you’ll excuse me, I have another call to make,” she said, walking across the room to the nursing desk.  Sinking into the chair, she smiled as Spock’s critical gaze easily split its focus between the monitor readings and the physician’s shallowly rising chest.  “Chapel to Bridge,” she toggled the comm.

 

“Bridge, Kirk here.”

 

“Captain, you asked me to contact you regarding a certain individual’s health,” Christine began, hoping the Captain would remember fast enough that she wouldn’t have to figure a way to dance around privacy regulations on an open channel.

 

Christine could almost hear Kirk’s eyes widen with his sudden intake of breath.  “On my way,” he acknowledged hurriedly.

 

Christine let out a relieved breath and headed to McCoy’s bedside with a smile.

 

***

 

Three hours later, McCoy was struggling to sit up, the oxygen mask fogging thickly with his labored breathing. 

 

“Easy Bones,” Kirk attempted to soothe the confused physician.

 

“Doctor, you require rest to fully recover from your injury,” Spock insisted, the firm Vulcan logic of his voice juxtaposed by the gentle human touch of his hand guiding McCoy back to the pillow.

 

“What injury?”  The muffling of the oxygen mask amplified McCoy’s already tired slur.

 

“The broken ribs you received when you ‘got the wind knocked out of you,’” Spock replied drily.

 

“Really?” McCoy murmured, stifling a gasp as he ran a practiced hand along his side.

 

“Really,” Kirk couldn’t help but smirk as McCoy’s hand found the newly healed fractures.

 

“Thought it was just a bruise,” McCoy sighed, grimacing back a cough.

 

“Perhaps, Doctor, had you applied the same consideration you used to treat the Xalian’s injury to your own…” Spock offered, barely attempting to disguise the slightly chiding tone.

 

“Is he all right?” McCoy’s eyes widened in recollection as he attempted to bolt upright.

 

“He’s fine Bones,” Kirk assured him, gently pressing the physician back down.  “Just relax,” he pleaded.

 

“I need….” McCoy groaned as he stifled another cough.

 

“…to lay down and stop being an idiot,” Christine finished for him as she strode to the bedside.  “Xalquan is fine.  The coag shot held and M’Benga repaired the vein.  _He_ is resting with his father, while _you_ , on the other hand, are dipping back down to the eighties because you’re still in pain,” she glared at him, readjusting the oxygen mask and administering a pain reliever.  “Just let it kick in,” Christine soothed as McCoy’s eyebrows drew together tightly at the tightness in his chest.  “All right, now deep breaths, with me,” Christine said, once McCoy’s face smoothed out with the medication, counting out full breaths, in and out, while watching the oxygen monitor with a critical eye.  “Good, you’re back into the nineties,” she smiled at the number, batting away McCoy’s hand as he tried to remove the oxygen mask.  “ _Low_ nineties,” she clarified with a growl.  “You’re not taking that off until you’re over ninety-five percent again _and_ you can cough properly.”

 

McCoy rolled his eyes with a groan.

 

“Roll your eyes all you want Doctor, but if you had a patient with fractures of the sixth and seventh ribs complicated by a pneumothorax, hypoxic and disoriented with an initial sat of eighty percent who just finished osteo regeneration and hasn’t yet started on a pain management and pulmonary program, you’d be growling a lot more than _I_ am right now,” Christine folded her arms across her chest firmly.

 

McCoy’s eyes softened in understanding and he flashed Christine a gentle, approving smile.  “Sorry Chris,” he murmured.

 

Christine laughed softly.  “Apology accepted,” she sighed.  “Now rest and work on that breathing.  I’ll get you another pillow to splint with.”  She smiled as Kirk and Spock leaned in at her departure, their concern for McCoy appearing to ease as the physician assured them of a positive prognosis.  As she returned with the pillow, her heart danced with the sound of soft laughter.  McCoy took the pillow with a light, easy smile and whispered thanks as Kirk regained his breath and, face threatening to split with his grin, continued relating the newest gossip Uhura had discovered about a particularly incompetent Admiral.  Spock’s shoulders were relaxed and he leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers steepled over pressed lips, listening to Kirk’s tale, dark eyes dancing with what could only be called pleased relief and the satisfaction of camaraderie. 

 

Christine returned to the desk to begin charting.  She had been right to call the Captain, and now, she had Mr. Spock’s support as well.  The more eyes the better.  She hoped she wouldn’t have to take them up on their offers again.  People, including stubborn work-a-holic physicians, _could_ change.

 

But, in case he didn’t…..she knew who to call.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This piece immediately follows the events in the first season episode “Operation Annihilate.” I’ve always felt McCoy was severely underappreciated in this episode. My heart never fails to break at the sheer, subtle emotions running through McCoy’s face during the scene where Kirk and Spock insist on Spock being the next test subject despite the risk of blindness. I felt McCoy speaking very clearly here - this is my humble attempt to delve further into his emotional state and I can only hope I do him credit. This chapter alludes to the fifth movie, “The Final Frontier” and as such, has been rated for discussion of euthanasia. Johanna McCoy’s personality (as well as the spelling of her name) are from my story “There Were Days.” Thank you for your support.

**3.**

The second time she calls it’s because Johanna McCoy calls _her_.

 

“Dammit Chris, what the _hell_ is going on out there?” Johanna demanded, her father’s blue eyes flashing in alternating waves of righteous anger and passionate concern.

 

Out of the very few people aboard the Enterprise that even knew McCoy _had_ a daughter, Christine Chapel was one of even fewer who had actually _spoken_ to the young woman before, so she found herself more surprised at the insinuation of a problem rather than the colorful force of Johanna’s demand.  “Johanna, what….” She began to reply.

 

“Please,” Johanna interrupted with an angry scoff, “like you haven’t noticed.  I just finished talking to him and I _swear_ , if you don’t find out who did this to him, _I_ will.”

 

“Did _what_?!” Christine felt a surge of alarm at the vehemence of Johanna’s words.  Was McCoy injured?  Did she miss something?  She thought back over the last few days – after Mr. Spock’s blindness had resolved, everything had seemed to return to what passed for normal on the Enterprise.

 

“Took all the life out of my Daddy!” Johanna shouted, gulping a breath before continuing, “He sat in one single, slumped over position for the whole call, his smile, if you could even _call_ it that, didn’t even come _close_ to reaching his eyes and I don’t think I’ve _ever_ seen someone so damn near drownin’ in depressed guilt and mem’ry.”  Johanna forced herself past the sudden hitch in her voice.  “Chris, when he can’t hide how bad he’s feelin’, you _know_ he’s in a world of trouble.  What’s goin’ on?” Johanna pleaded.

 

Christine swallowed back the growing alarm that moved from her stomach to the back of her throat.  She proceeded to tell Johanna about the Denevan parasites, fighting for a cure, the raw emotion of the Captain’s losses and Spock’s bout with blindness.  “Regulations be damned,” Christine thought to herself as she realized she really shouldn’t be telling a civilian about their most recent mission.   “I’m a nurse first,” she reminded herself, “and there’s a patient’s health at stake here.”

 

Johanna listened carefully.  “That was almost three days ago now.  How’s he been since then?” she leaned forward, eyeing Christine critically.

 

Christine paused in thought, then promptly swore as the realization hit her.  “Quiet.  I haven’t seen him eat at all and I doubt he’s been sleeping.  Last night I found him at his desk with an untouched glass of bourbon, turning a data disk around in his hand and staring at the wall.”  Why had she forgotten all this?!  Why hadn’t she stepped in sooner?

 

Johanna’s eyes narrowed slightly, more with concentration than what Christine felt would have been quite justified anger.  “Was it red?  The disk?  Sort of worn and scratched in one corner?” she worried her bottom lip with her thumb.

 

“Yes,” Christine replied after a moment’s thought, raising her eyebrows in anticipation for what that could mean.

 

Panic flooded Johanna’s face at the confirmation.  “This is _exactly_ how he was after my granddaddy died,” she realized, suddenly breathless.  “Chris, he was a _mess_.  You’ve gotta do something, _please_ ,” she pleaded desperately.

 

“Jo, I….I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I didn’t…..” Christine felt the apology die in her throat, shame taking its place as the reason for her inaction suddenly clawed its way from muddled, unconscious thought to clear, conscious understanding.  

 

Johanna latched onto the anger overtaking the flood of realization across Christine’s face.  “Okay, so who pissed you off?  ‘Cause I’d bet real money they had somethin’ to do with all this,” she pushed.

 

Christine sighed as her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.  “There’s no excuse….I can’t _believe_ I was so petty,” she berated herself.

 

“Chris….” Johanna growled.

 

Christine looked back up at the view screen.  “I was going to ask the Captain and Mr. Spock to talk to him earlier, but I was still so _angry_ ….I just couldn’t get myself to deal with them,” she sighed.

 

“What’d they do?” Johanna demanded.

 

“They….” Christine couldn’t help but feel like a naughty schoolgirl getting her classmates into trouble.  She shook aside the childish feeling with the more mature realization that not only did she need to rectify her slow response to the situation, but that the reason for her anger was probably a big part of McCoy’s current condition.  “Both the Captain and Mr. Spock completely ignored Dr. McCoy’s reservations and insisted on doing a live subject test with _complete_ disregard to time or risk.  If they had just waited five damn minutes, I’d have had the results from the first test and they wouldn’t have had to use the blinding white light at all!  But they _insisted_ , and then blamed Dr. McCoy for Mr. Spock’s blindness.  Then, when the Captain finally figured he should try apologizing, he did it over the comm – voice only.  Didn’t even do it face to face and certainly didn’t try again when Doctor McCoy didn’t respond.  I don’t think he’s even thanked the Doctor for all the work we did keeping his nephew sedated enough to avoid the final stages,” Christine found her voice rising as rage coursed through her.  “God _dam_ mit, I know those two don’t mean it, but I _swear_ , sometimes I think they forget Leonard is _human_.  They’re so used to the miracles, for him always _being_ there, that they forget the man behind it all,” she exploded.                  

 

Christine was shocked to find Johanna smiling.  “Good,” the young woman said, with a hint of predatory satisfaction, “now you go find the Captain and Mr. Spock and tell them to fix what they broke, else I’ll be fixin’ to come break _them_.”

 

Christine nodded.  It was extremely rare to hear a threat of physical violence from a McCoy, at least outside of grumbled teasing, but she had no doubt Johanna would follow through on that statement.  “I’ll call them right now,” she assured her.

 

“Hold on,” Johanna said quickly, jumping up and grabbing something off-screen before returning to her seat.  “Take this,” she said, sending a file to Christine’s comm. 

 

Christine scrolled down the page, looking back up with confusion.  “A tea recipe?”

 

“Not just _any_ tea recipe,” Johanna smiled fondly, “but my Daddy’s famous ‘sit down and tell me what hurts’ honeyed tea.  Whenever something was bothering me, he’d sit me down with a mug of that tea and everything just made itself right.”

 

Christine smiled warmly.  “I’ll do my best,” she promised, knowing Johanna desperately wanted to be doing this herself.

 

“I know you will,” Johanna replied softly.  “When I call back later, I expect to see my Daddy again,” she fixed Christine with a firm look.

 

“You will,” Christine’s voice was sure.  The two women said their goodbyes and the screen hadn’t even gone completely blank before Christine was calling the Bridge.  The current shift ended in twenty minutes and Kirk and Spock could damn well report directly to sickbay.  She found herself somewhat surprised by who she called first.  “Sickbay to Mr. Spock,” she said.

 

Christine swore she could hear a trace of that same surprise in Spock’s voice as he replied, “Spock here.”

 

“Mr. Spock, I require your assistance with an ‘unsettling’ matter in sickbay once your shift is over,” Christine informed the First Officer matter-of-factly.

 

“Indeed,” Christine could hear one of those infernal eyebrows go up as the Vulcan understood her meaning.  “Shall I inform the Captain?” he asked, thoughtfully pitching his voice lower.

 

“Please,” Christine replied.

 

“Very well, Nurse Chapel.  The Captain and I shall report to sickbay in twenty-four point three minutes.”

 

Christine rolled her eyes.  She had no doubt Spock knew _exactly_ how much time was involved in traveling between the Bridge and sickbay.  Come to think of it, she wouldn’t be surprised if McCoy did too – the man certainly wore quite a track in the decking between those two locations.  “Thank you, Mr. Spock.  Chapel out.”

 

***

 

When Kirk and Spock walked into sickbay exactly twenty-four point three minutes later, they were met with a very serious Christine Chapel holding a tray of steaming tea.  Without preamble, Christine thrust the tray at Kirk with a firm, “Doctor McCoy is in his quarters.  You two need to go talk to him _now_.”

 

Kirk’s eyes seemed to war between widening in surprise and narrowing in suspicion.  “Why?” he asked carefully.

 

“Why?” Christine’s voice went up an octave before she tried to remind herself that she really shouldn’t explode in front of her commanding officer.  In the end, she realized she didn’t care.  An icy protectiveness chilled her tone as she continued, “Because neither of you have properly apologized for blaming him for an experiment _you_ pushed.  Because he’s barely said a word in three days, hasn’t eaten or slept and is obviously in need of some support.  And, most of all, because his _daughter_ just called me demanding to know why her father was in as bad a state as he had been when his _own_ father died,” Christine finished with a glare.

 

Spock’s eyebrows flew to his hairline.  Kirk was uncharacteristically speechless for a moment before finally finding his voice.  “I didn’t know Bones lost his father,” he admitted softly, before bringing his attention back to the matter at hand.  “Why didn’t he say something?” he wondered out loud.

 

“Probably because he was busy dealing with Mr. Spock’s blindness and recovery along with supporting you and your nephew through _your_ losses,” Christine pointed out.  “And the question _should_ be, ‘why didn’t we notice it sooner?’” she added, a soft tinge of regret thawing the frigidity.

 

Kirk was quiet again, looking at the ground uncomfortably before forcing his eyes back up to Christine.  “You’re absolutely right,” he agreed, body straightening in preparation.  “How should we handle this?” he asked, the quiet softness of worried friendship playing through his usual tactical focus.

 

“Captain, if I might interject,” Spock spoke up.

 

“Of course, Spock,” Kirk said hastily, hope flickering across his face.

 

“Perhaps Nurse Chapel could provide further detail regarding her and Miss McCoy’s observations,” Spock supplied.

 

At Kirk’s approving nod, Christine proceeded to tell them everything she could remember about McCoy’s behavior since the Denevan incident before launching into a detailed rendering of Johanna’s observations and fears.  Spock hummed quietly at the mention of the data disk, but otherwise remained silent until Christine finished. 

 

“And you believe this tea will encourage Doctor McCoy to reveal what is disturbing him?” Spock asked drily, one eyebrow arched at the steaming liquid.

 

Christine couldn’t completely keep the smile from her face.  “No, Mr. Spock, _Johanna_ believes it will.  It’s an old family recipe that Doctor McCoy has used with her in the past, apparently to great effect.”

 

Kirk sniffed the tea suspiciously before giving the liquid a satisfied nod.  “Just checking.  I didn’t _really_ think Bones would have plied his daughter with alcohol when she needed to talk.  Just us,” his fond smile soured under the weight of a fresh wave of guilt.  Christine was right – he should have sat McCoy down with a drink and apologized properly days ago.  He could only hope his thoughtlessness could be forgiven.  Again.

 

Christine rolled her eyes with a laugh.  “Go fix this,” she ordered Kirk and Spock, shooing them out the door.

 

***

 

Kirk found himself growing acutely nervous once they reached McCoy’s quarters.  Honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised if McCoy flat-out refused to see them.

 

“C’m in,” McCoy’s tired drawl replied to the bell.

 

Kirk sighed.  Even feeling like hell, McCoy couldn’t turn down a potential patient.  Kirk moved to step forward, but Spock suddenly put out a hand, stopping him in his path.  Kirk took a breath to speak, but immediately quieted at Spock’s tilted head and focused expression…..it was as if the Vulcan were literally reading the emotional atmosphere of the room.  Kirk had seen Spock do this once or twice before and it always made him smile.  McCoy called it a ‘genetic beauty’ – a Vulcan’s telepathic ability melding with a human’s intuitive feeling.  The Doctor may never have admitted it, but he was obviously honored, under a fine layer of teasing digs at Spock’s humanity of course, to assist Spock in understanding the phenomenon further.

 

“Captain, might I suggest that I enter first?” Spock asked.

 

“Whatever you think Bones needs,” Kirk agreed, trusting Spock’s judgment implicitly.  “I’ll wait by the door, for whenever you or….. Bones…. is ready,” he swallowed hard at McCoy’s name, before tightening his resolve and following Spock into the darkened room.

 

Spock slowly walked toward the faint light in the small sitting room.  He heard the doctor shift to an upright position.

 

“Spock, you all right?” Concern steadied McCoy’s exhausted voice.  “Your eyes givin’ you trouble?”

 

Spock allowed himself a small smile of admiration at the Doctor’s ability to recognize his friends by quiet footsteps alone.  He had once mentioned to McCoy that it must have been a difficult task within the limitations of human hearing, only to have the physician deny that hearing had anything to do with it.  “I am in perfect health Doctor,” he replied, rounding the corner to see his friend slumped on the couch.

 

“Of course you are,” McCoy snorted softly, the ever-present ring clinking softly against the data disk he twisted in his left hand.  His eyebrow quirked at the tea tray.  “Tea, Mr. Spock?” he noted with a combination of weary confusion and amusement.

 

“Nurse Chapel requested that I deliver it.  She believes that you require nourishment,” Spock said.

 

McCoy’s face twisted into a weak half-smile as he huffed knowingly.  “Nurse Chapel also seems to believe that I ‘require’ conversation,” he gestured toward the second cup on the tray, eyeing Spock suspiciously.  At the Vulcan’s mildly raised eyebrow, McCoy deflated and motioned to the seat next to him.  “Well, have a seat,” he sighed.

 

Spock perched himself on the edge of the couch cushion and handed McCoy a cup.

 

McCoy sputtered in surprise at the first sip.  “How in blazes did she get this?” he demanded, his hardened voice betrayed as his hands reflexively tightened in comfort around the warm beverage.

 

“Miss McCoy gave Nurse Chapel the recipe,” Spock answered.

 

“When did Jo talk to Chris?” McCoy murmured to himself, staring into the tea for a reply.

 

“Your daughter was concerned for your well-being after your last conversation.  She shared those concerns with Nurse Chapel,” Spock supplied.

 

McCoy sighed heavily.  “She shouldn’t be worryin’ ‘bout me.”

 

“That does not change the fact that she is indeed doing so,” Spock said pointedly. 

 

McCoy rolled his eyes silently over another sip of tea.

 

Spock put his mug down softly, carefully leaning forward to meet McCoy’s eyes.  “Doctor, it has come to my attention that I have not properly thanked you,” he said.

 

McCoy’s eyes widened.  “Thanked me?  For what?” he scoffed.  “Having to leave that creature twined around your nervous system?  Not havin’ a pain medication worth a damn against what that creature could inflict?  Blinding you?” McCoy practically spat that last phrase.

 

“For not subjecting me to a longer surgical procedure than was either medically necessary or indeed possible in that situation.  For sedating me during my weakness on the Bridge before I could either take control of the ship or severely injure other crewmembers.  For, in the end, allowing me to choose my fate despite the logical risks of such an action.  For remaining in sickbay past your scheduled shift so I would not have to face my newfound blindness alone,” Spock countered with soft firmness.

 

McCoy blinked in surprise.  “Spock, I….”

 

“Doctor, had I but waited for the results of the first test, I would not have been blinded.  The test would have been modified appropriately to eliminate that element of the spectrum.  I….did not believe I could resist the creature much longer and I made an….illogical decision…..though it appeared logically sound at the time,” Spock added swiftly before continuing, “I was wrong to imply you were at fault when I stated that blindness was an equitable trade for the removal of the creature.  You informed both the Captain and I of the risks and offered a protective measure, which we both refused.  You then assisted me with the ramifications of my decision.  You performed most admirably, Doctor, and for that, I thank you.”

 

“Spock, I….” McCoy cleared his throat rapidly.  “Thank you, Mr. Spock,” he finally managed.  “I’m just glad it worked in the end,” McCoy said thickly, eyes straying to the red disk he had dropped to the side before taking the tea.

 

Spock bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement of McCoy’s acceptance, but his eyes didn’t miss the physician’s subtle shift toward the data disk.  “Is that the final test data?” Spock asked, nodding slightly toward the disk.

 

“No,” McCoy hastily denied.  “It’s nothing.”

 

“I highly doubt that it is ‘nothing’ Doctor,” Spock said.  “It would be most illogical to carry around a blank disk long enough to create such wear marks.”

 

McCoy sighed.  “It’s nothing to concern _yourself_ with Mr. Spock,” he clarified.

 

“Doctor McCoy, it would be highly illogical for me to dismiss an object that is obviously of such concern to _you_ ,” Spock said quietly.

 

McCoy’s face fell, eyes suspiciously moist behind the tea’s lingering veil of steam.  “Spock….” He pleaded softly.

 

“That disease took many lives before a cure was discovered,” Spock nodded toward the data disk, ignoring McCoy’s muttered oath regarding Vulcan eyesight.  “It left its victims in great pain,” he continued softly.  “Many longed for death rather than hold out hope for a cure.”

 

McCoy shuddered.  Wide, red-rimmed eyes slowly fixed on Spock.  “And what would _you_ have done, Mr. Spock, had they asked you for that release?” he asked slowly, shakily.

 

“Had I been in possession of a solution that would lead to a peaceful, painless death, I would have administered it,” Spock replied, watching McCoy carefully.

 

“Even if you were a physician?” McCoy’s voice stuttered.

 

“I would have considered it my duty to do so,” Spock said.

 

“Your duty?” McCoy repeated with a bitter laugh.  “And how would you have reconciled that action with your oath?  ‘First, do no harm’, Mr. Spock.  You’re taught that death is the ultimate harm, to preserve life at all costs…..but no one talks about the lines…..the ones between standing back, doing nothing, and preserving a life in agony….and stepping forward, relieving the pain, and sending a coherent mind to its next journey.  Do I stand back when all options are exhausted…. watch you, Jim’s nephew, a million Denevans, go mad with a pain conventional surgery, analgesics or sedatives can’t even _touch_ ….preserve life…..” McCoy ground out those last two words, swiping a hand desperately across his eyes as his voice broke, “or do I step forward…..relieve the pain….when they ask…..offer…..” his voice cracked as he buried his face in his hands.

 

Spock closed his eyes at the soft sound of Kirk’s drawn breath by the door.  “Doctor,” Spock began, his voice heartbreakingly human in its gentleness and honesty, “the pain the creature inflicted upon me was…..unlike anything I have ever experienced.  Even while I was maintaining a level of control enough to assist in the search for a cure, it was quite…. tenuous.  My seemingly illogical decisions to remove myself to the planet with the affected colonists and to proceed to volunteer myself for a test that I knew would severely damage my optic nerves…..were made in an effort to end the pain.  Had we not discovered a way to destroy the creature while maintaining the life of the host, I would have gone down to the surface with the Captain’s young nephew to await the destruction of the planet.  However, had you approached me with another choice…..with a peaceful, chemical release from what we scientifically _knew_ would only be an escalating cycle of pain…..I would not only have _chosen_ that option, but I would have been grateful _for_ it.”

 

“Grateful that your doctor offered death?” McCoy choked.

 

“Grateful that my doctor had the very _human_ compassion, knowledge and strength to offer me relief, should I choose it.  Death is not always the enemy, Doctor.  I fail to see the harm in easing a rational mind from one life to the next,” Spock said.

 

McCoy’s breath hitched, a half-sob muffled through his hands as Kirk finally stepped forward.  “I would have made the same decision for my nephew,” he said quietly, desperately trying to keep his own voice even.  “I wouldn’t have wanted him to die in… agonizing pain like his mother….I _couldn’t_ let that happen.  If we hadn’t found a cure…..the least I could have done for my brother…..my sister-in-law….would have been to spare their son such a death.”  Kirk slid between Spock and McCoy on the couch and gently took McCoy’s hands from his face, making sure the physician was looking him in the eye before he finished, “And, Bones, there’s _no one_ else I’d trust with that kind of decision.”

 

McCoy swore as the last of his control shattered and tears began rolling down his cheeks.  “Dammit Jim,” he choked, swiping at his eyes, “as if it wasn’t embarrassin’ enough nearly losin’ it in front of _Spock_ …..” McCoy paused, glancing apologetically at Spock, “No offense Spock,” he added.

 

“None taken, Doctor,” Spock replied easily.

 

“…Then you had to come out of the corner with _that_ ,” McCoy waved his hand at Kirk’s words of trust. 

 

Kirk cringed.  “How long did you know I was there?” he asked.

 

McCoy laughed, choking on a sudden sniffle.  “Really, Jim, like you’d let Spock walk into an emotional minefield like this alone?”

 

“I don’t know Bones, I thought Spock did rather well.  I almost forgot about his Vulcan half there for awhile,” Kirk’s eyes gleamed.

 

“Really Captain, if you are going to insult me….” Spock sighed.

 

McCoy sputtered a relieved laugh, fresh tears coursing down his face.  Kirk gently cupped the back of McCoy’s head, pulling the physician forward so McCoy’s head was resting on his shoulder.

 

Once McCoy’s breathing evened out, Kirk spoke up again.  “I’m so sorry Bones.  I _never_ should have blamed you for doing that test, when I was the one pushing it despite the risks.  You were taking care of Spock, Peter and Aurelan, minding _my_ emotional state at every turn, _and_ working on the cure….and I never even thought of stopping to thank you.”

 

“’S’all right, Jim,” McCoy mumbled into Kirk’s shoulder as he started to straighten up.

 

“On the contrary, Doctor, our failure to acknowledge your efforts and the effects of those actions upon you, is inexcusable,” Spock said.

 

“It’s not ‘all right’ Bones,” Kirk agreed with Spock firmly.  “You’d _never_ let one of us get into that bad a state before stepping in.  We should have come sooner.”

 

“Agreed,” Spock nodded.

 

McCoy smiled self-consciously, drawing in a steadying breath.  “Well, then, apology accepted.  Both of you.  And thanks….for being here,” he added sincerely.

 

“I do not understand where else we might have been,” Spock countered, dark eyes dancing through his neutral tone.

 

McCoy rolled his eyes with a chuckled sigh. 

 

Kirk felt himself finally start to relax.  Motioning at the dark circles under McCoy’s eyes, Kirk said, “You know, Bones, I’ve heard that there’s something called sleep….” He grinned.

 

“Smartass,” McCoy muttered under his breath, a hint of his usual spark overtaking the previously unnerving blue despair.

 

“You think you can get some sleep?” Kirk asked.  “Or should I get you one of those red pills….”

 

“No!” McCoy nearly shouted down Kirk’s pharmacological recommendation.  Ever since he had taken one of those sleeping pills, only to wake up to having to shoot a mirror image of his beloved Nancy while the creature it _truly_ was hurt his friends….he just hadn’t been able to stomach the thought of using them ever again.

 

“Okay Bones,” Kirk placated the wide-eyed physician.  Thinking quickly, his eyes lit upon McCoy’s favorite medicinal cure for insomniac starship captains.  “All right then, Doctor, how about a shot of _this_ ,” he reached for the cabinet, pulling out a bottle, “while I treat you to a recitation of Starfleet’s most recent regulatory revisions.  I think they substituted a period for a comma somewhere,” Kirk raised his eyebrows in mock excitement.  “I _guarantee_ , it’ll put you to sleep _way_ before the drink does,” he grinned.

 

McCoy snorted back a laugh.  “Sounds fascinating.”

 

“I believe you are mistaken in your choice of adjective Doctor,” Spock offered.

 

“Oh really, Mr. Spock?” McCoy’s eyebrow quirked.  “What adjective would _you_ use?”  He paused for a moment before suggesting, eyes lighting with memory, “Interesting?” 

 

“No, Doctor, ‘interesting’ is also a poor choice.  I would suggest……redundant and uninspired,” Spock’s eyes teased.

 

McCoy’s grin finally swept away the last remnants of darkness.  Eyes shining mischievously, he pointed out, “Why Mr. Spock, I believe those are _two_ adjectives.”

 

“Indeed,” Spock noted, eyebrow raised in surprised realization.  “I must apologize for that most…. disconcerting miscalculation.”  His voice remained as even as ever while his eyes shone with pleasure at McCoy’s response to their familiar game.

 

“Quite all right, Mr. Spock,” McCoy nodded sagely, eyes sparkling.  “You’re only half-human, after all.”

 

Kirk could barely pour the glasses through his laughter.

 

***

 

The next morning, Christine received a call from a pleasantly satisfied Johanna McCoy.  “So, the Captain and Mr. Spock’s lives are safe for now?” Christine teased.

 

“For now,” Johanna chuckled.  “They gave me my Daddy back,” she smiled in soft relief before her eyes hardened as she added, “but if they _ever_ do that again, my promise still stands.”

 

Christine didn’t miss Johanna’s use of ‘promise’ over ‘threat.’  She didn’t doubt that the young woman would fight for her father’s well-being – _nothing_ could stop a McCoy’s natural, passionate advocacy.

 

Spock was walking into sickbay, heading toward McCoy’s office, when Johanna spoke again.  “Ya’ll didn’t happen to see what was on that disk, did you?” she asked, biting her lip nervously, eyes drifting in pained memory.

 

Christine shook her head.  “Mr. Spock _did_ mention the title he saw though.  He thought you might want to know,” she offered, voice tinged with curious hope.

 

Christine had no doubt that Spock heard Johanna’s sudden, sharp breath at the name of the disease.  She was pretty sure he also heard Johanna’s hand fly to her mouth as tears of understanding flooded her wide eyes.

 

But if he had suspected any such response…..any such connection…..

 

…… He didn’t say a word.  


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: This piece immediately follows the events in the first season episode “City on the Edge of Forever.” I’ve always felt that the effects of the cordrazine on McCoy were glossed over, and I’ve always been interested in the fact that the overdose that launched the episode was largely forgotten by the end. Medically speaking, there’s no way McCoy would have gotten off that easy from a dose “one hundred times” the therapeutic one. I also wanted to see more of Kirk and Spock dealing with such a serious event. In the episode, they’re both extremely concerned on the Bridge when the overdose occurs - they search for literature on what to expect and they go to the planet to find McCoy. However, once they get to the planet and find the Guardian, we only get a brief, but beautiful, moment of Kirk and Spock discussing whether they can go back in time to prevent the accident from happening, before the focus shifts completely to the power of the Guardian, and once an unguarded McCoy (seriously, they nerve pinch him and leave him on the ground with no one watching him!) goes through the portal, everything turns into a race to figure out where McCoy changed history and to fix it, alongside Kirk’s growing love for Edith Keeler. It’s like the fact that McCoy could be dying from a cordrazine overdose slipped everyone’s minds. Then, there was the beautiful reunion where they all hugged, followed by the emotionally crushing scene where Kirk held McCoy back from saving Edith, and the episode ended with McCoy physically fine, but emotionally raw like his Captain. I wanted more Kirk/Spock/McCoy friendship revolving around what a cordrazine overdose might really do, and this is the result. And now that my note has gotten ridiculously long, my apologies! Once again, Nurse Mara Govannen is an original character from my story “There Were Days.” Thank you for reading.

**4.**

 

 

Christine Chapel’s nursing career was built on two fundamental principles.

 

(1)  If something _could_ go wrong, it _would_.   The Enterprise _would_ hit heavy displacement while McCoy was handling a hypo full of cordrazine.  The resulting overdose _would_ be on such an unprecedented scale that they knew little to nothing about the potential adverse effects.  And, of course, the overdosed patient suffering from severe paranoid delusions _would_ escape the ship to a planet with a goddamn _time portal_. 

 

Christine honestly hadn’t known _what_ to expect when they returned, but a rational, coherent, _living_ physician trudging into sickbay had, admittedly, been more of a fervent, wild hope than an educated, pharmacological prediction.  When McCoy had walked out of sickbay an hour later with a normal physical scan and blood panel, Christine’s stomach immediately clenched.  There was no _way_ McCoy was walking away from a massive cordrazine overdose with only the eerie echo of his Captain’s pain-filled, thousand-yard stare.

 

(2)  When something’s about to go wrong, your gut will tell you way before any diagnostic equipment will.  It would have been easy to miss the little signs under the lingering emotional tension, but Christine Chapel wasn’t Head Nurse of the Enterprise because she took the easy route.  In the two days it took Kirk, Spock and McCoy to sit down and move past whatever it was that had haunted their eyes, Christine’s gut had gone from clenched to rolling.  It was little things – a passing squint of distrust at a trusted colleague’s back; a fleeting blankness before blue eyes lit with recognition; a lingering hand on a passing biobed, as if testing reality.  The third day brought the rolling to a nauseous itch as the fresh dispersal of those painful emotional clouds failed to yield even the _muted_ sunshine of passionate smiles and study.  There was no bouncing, too much sitting, and a disturbing tendency to rub his lower back when he thought no one was looking.

 

The fourth day, her gut started screaming seconds before Mara did.

 

“I need oxygen and another set of hands in here _now_!” Mara’s voice shot from McCoy’s office.

 

 Christine sprinted to the crash cart, grabbed the O2 unit and medkit and skidded to Mara’s side.  “What happened?” she gasped, fitting the oxygen mask to McCoy’s face as Mara held the paling physician in his chair, one hand on his heaving chest, the other wrapped around his wrist.

 

“I walked in, he stood up, went gray, tachypneic and collapsed,” Mara’s clipped assessment flew through the proprieties of punctuation.  She swore at McCoy’s wrist.  “Chris, his pulse is barely hitting thirty.”

 

“Leonard, talk to me,” Christine ordered as Mara shouted their location to M’Benga’s hurried footsteps.

 

McCoy’s wide eyes struggled to track the room.  Christine pulled Mara’s hand off his chest and moved it to his shoulder.  Grabbing his free shoulder with one hand while rooting for the atropine with the other, Christine tried again.  “Leonard, come on, talk to me,” her voice strong and steady over the pounding of her heart.  Atropine in hand, she reached for his face, the cool metal of the hypo brushing his cheek as she put herself in his line of vision.

McCoy’s eyes were startlingly devoid of anything but panic for several, heart-breaking seconds before a glimmer of recognition pushed him to speak.  “Chris?  Can’t….breathe….dizzy….” the mask fogged desperately.

 

“That’d be ‘cause your heart rate’s down to _thirty_ ,” Mara growled as M’Benga rushed in, motioning for Christine to give the atropine based on Mara’s words and McCoy’s physical symptoms alone.

 

McCoy’s breathing was just starting to even out and Mara was reporting a grudging improvement to fifty when the soft click of the tricorder signaled the end of M’Benga’s scan.  Only those who knew the Vulcan specialist well could read the gravity of the situation in the barest tensing of his unfailingly calm expression. 

 

Christine knew him well.

 

“Leonard, I’m going to call for a gurney so we can get you to a bed, all right?” M’Benga knelt in front of McCoy to meet the physician’s eyes.

 

McCoy barely managed a nod through heavy lids and careful, focused breathing.

 

Christine’s heart froze at McCoy’s silence.  No insistence for details.  No attempt to see the tricorder and collaborate.  No protesting that he was fine, even knowing he wasn’t.

 

“Mara, if you would, please set up for transcutanous dialysis and move the emergency cart to the bedside.  Also, please prepare for a blood draw – I would like to verify these numbers,” M’Benga’s eyes ghosted darkly across the tricorder screen.

 

Mara’s eyes widened as she leaned over M’Benga’s shoulder to check the screen.  “A K of _nine_?!” she gasped before whirling around, sidestepping the arriving gurney, and bolting out the door.

 

Christine’s gut moved to her throat as everything fell into sickly, perfect place.  Once McCoy was transferred to the gurney, she lurched for the comm.

 

The third time she called, it was because if someone overdosed on a medication that was almost solely metabolized by the kidneys…..

 

……it _would_ send them into renal failure.

 

***

 

Christine’s voice had been as calm and professional as ever when she requested Kirk and Spock’s presence in sickbay, but Kirk’s own gut had kicked in as some distant, nameless fear flooded his chest.  The nagging feeling grew as he walked into the flurry of sickbay, as dialysis orders flew over calls for potassium binders, as lab results were confirmed with barely concealed concern, as heart monitors beeped and oxygen hissed and tricorders whirled and the words ‘nephrons’ and ‘surgery’ crescendoed into the sound of blood rushing in his ears as that once nameless fear voiced itself in the choked exhalation of one raw syllable.  “Bones.”

 

Kirk was no stranger to sickbay emergencies - hell, he was often the _cause_ of them – but there was always one constant in that rush of action and foreign, urgent sound…..one Southern-warmed drawl whose compassion overshadowed the pain, the fear, and the uncertainty…..who followed the orders with soft translations to an injured friend, whether it was medically possible for him to hear those assurances or not.

 

Kirk always heard.

 

It was the absence of that voice that took the last of the breath from his chest…..and the glimpse of panicked blue eyes over a suddenly heaving chest that forced him to breathe enough to move to the bedside. 

 

Kirk wasn’t prepared for Christine to push him _toward_ McCoy, rather than out of the way, and he found some detached part of his brain filing that moment away for later gratitude as the sickbay staff flowed around him, purposeful waves adapting to a newly placed rock.  “Bones,” he swallowed hard.  “Bones, look at me.  Breathe!” Kirk pleaded. 

 

McCoy’s eyes struggled toward Kirk as a hypo discharged with a curt, “One milligram atropine in.”

 

“Heart rate’s still shit,” Mara called out.

 

“Give it a moment,” M’Benga’s soft lilt returned.  “We just need to stabilize him enough to get the potassium down.”

 

“Potassium’s still shit too,” Mara continued with a glare at the monitor.

 

M’Benga sighed.  “We need to give the dialysis time.  I’ll only give another dose of the binder if we have no other choice.  If we do too much, we’ll push him to the other extreme,” he insisted.

 

McCoy shuddered as he met Kirk’s eyes, desperately seeking assurance through the wild lack of recognition clouding his own blue.

 

Kirk had to force himself past the irrational impulse to shake McCoy into realization.  “Bones,” his whisper was harsh with emotion.  “Just….it’s _me_ , Bones….please, just _breathe_.”

 

McCoy’s eyes sparked weakly, as if he unconsciously recognized the pain in Kirk’s voice and managed to push himself past the lack of oxygen to soothe that worry.  “Jim?” he struggled through the oxygen mask, eyes squinting in confirmation.

 

“Save it Doctor,” Mara interrupted.  “Until that heart rate comes _up_ and that potassium goes _down_ , you just keep quiet.  The Captain can talk enough for both of you.”

 

And so Kirk did.  He kept up a steady stream of meandering conversation, talking about everything and anything, an illusion of helpful activity proven reality by eased breathing and decreased panic that no medical intervention could take credit for. 

 

“Heart rate’s hanging at fifty,” Mara reported quietly, afraid to break the calming spell of Kirk’s emotional rambling.

 

“Potassium’s only down to eight point five,” Christine added softly.  “Do you want to increase the specific removal rate?” she asked M’Benga.

 

M’Benga frowned at the EKG.  “Please,” he specified a new set of orders.  “It looks like a new heart block,” he tapped the monitor for a wave analysis.

 

Mara swore under her breath and began glaring at the monitor, as if she could prevent the dysrhythmia from progressing by sheer will alone.

 

An hour later, Spock began supplementing Kirk’s flagging voice with recitations of medical studies from the Vulcan Science Academy’s most recent publication.  Christine swore she saw a small smile ease McCoy’s face as his EKG finally settled into a normal sinus rhythm.

 

“Heart rate’s sixty, regular sinus,” Mara sighed.

 

“Potassium’s down to six point five,” Christine said.

 

“Please cut the potassium removal rate by half,” M’Benga replied, wanting to ease McCoy down the last point or so.

 

Kirk looked up at the slight ease in the medical tension.  Swallowing several times to recapture his voice, he kept one hand on a sleeping McCoy’s arm as he asked, bewildered, “What’s going on?”

 

“Leonard is in renal failure, which has dangerously elevated his potassium level, affecting his heart,” M’Benga said.

 

“How….” Kirk struggled to understand.

 

“The cordrazine, Captain,” Christine offered quietly.

 

Kirk’s eyes widened and he shook his head furiously.  “No…..he was _fine_!  Spock and I found him…..we made sure everything continued as it should……” some of that haunted pain flared back, “…..we didn’t…..” Kirk’s eyes shone with the threat of bitter tears as Spock laid a gentle hand on his arm in support. 

 

“Cordrazine is metabolized by the kidneys, Captain.  It took several days for the symptoms of such a stress to become severe enough to present so overtly.  Medically speaking, it’s incredible that such a massive dose did not kill Leonard immediately on the Bridge that day,” M’Benga said softly.

 

Kirk’s eyes squeezed shut and he made the slightest shift into Spock’s supportive touch.  “He looked _fine_ …..he knew who we were….” He pleaded.  He and Spock had gone back in time.  They found what had been changed and he broke his and McCoy’s hearts reestablishing the timeline.  They found McCoy and brought him back, coherently and passionately _alive_.  Kirk couldn’t understand why this was happening.

 

“He may have _looked_ fine, Captain, but that doesn’t mean he _was_ fine.  The worst of the paranoia may have resolved, but his kidneys just weren’t meant to handle processing that much cordrazine.  He’s been showing little signs for a few days – it finally got to be too much.  You can’t just walk away from something like this,” she finished with a pained, honest whisper.

 

Kirk’s bleary eyes demanded to know why not before guilt flared in his chest.  He had become so focused on fixing the timeline after McCoy jumped through the Guardian…..so enamored with Edith Keeler…..so devastated by her required death……that he had almost forgotten about the overdose to begin with.  When McCoy stepped out of the mission that night, hugging them with that supernova grin…..he figured everything was all right, that the drug had worked its way out of his system.  McCoy and his staff created medical miracles every day – he was so used to a last-minute save, a curative hypo……he figured either time, or the physician himself, had done all the healing that was needed.

 

How naive he had been.

 

“What’s the prognosis?” Kirk asked thickly.  Looking back down at McCoy, his voice cracked as he continued, “I can’t….I _won’t_ …. lose him too.”

 

Christine swore she felt every heart in the room shatter.

 

M’Benga sighed.  “Leonard’s kidneys have been severely damaged – ninety percent of the nephrons, the individual, functioning units that make up the kidney, have been destroyed.  We are currently using dialysis to bring the potassium back down to a safe level and the machine can function for his kidneys for the moment.  Once his electrolytes and vital signs are stabilized, we have two surgical options.  We can perform direct regeneration of the damaged nephrons, or we can prepare the labs for growth of a new set of kidneys for transplantation,” he explained.

 

“Will the Doctor be recovered enough to withstand surgery at that time?” Spock spoke up, one eye still on the monitors, low voice tinged with uncertainty.

 

“I’ll be fine Spock,” McCoy slurred.

 

Spock’s eyebrow shot up as everyone shifted their focus to the physician.  “Doctor, I am not certain that you are…” he began.

 

A spark of McCoy stubbornness breached the clouded blue as his eyes narrowed in a familiar glare.  Kirk felt his heart unclench just a fraction – it was missing the agitated bounce and clasped hands behind the back, but it was still a formidable Leonard McCoy glare.  “Not certain that I’m _what_ , Mr. Spock?” McCoy challenged.  “Rational?  Capable of sound medical judgment?  I’m in renal failure, Spock, not demented,” he growled.

 

“Doctor, it was not my intention to suggest….” Spock attempted.

 

McCoy dismissed the apology with a weak wave of his hand.  “I know, Spock.  I may be on the other side of the bed, but I’m still a doctor.  M’Benga’s right – ya’ll get the electrolytes and cardiac function stabilized, and my surgical risk won’t be any different than someone with two perfectly functioning kidneys.”

 

“Bones, are you sure you want to….” Kirk’s grip tightened imperceptibly on his friend’s arm.

 

“Jim, the longer we wait before surgical intervention, the greater the chance it might not work.  Now, most of the research says you’ve got a week, but I’ve personally never liked to risk that much time, even _with_ dialysis.  I’ve operated on both of _you_ under worse conditions than this,” McCoy smiled weakly at Kirk and Spock.  “I’ll be fine.”

 

Kirk looked to Spock and the two paused for a moment before nodding in quiet, tandem agreement.

 

Christine watched, amazed, as McCoy visibly relaxed with that validation, his eyes clearing with familiar focus as he looked to M’Benga.  It was as if he couldn’t make the decision without the support and approval of his friends, even though it was _his_ health and he not only _understood_ the procedures but was qualified to _perform_ them.  He needed them to understand, for them to be comfortable with the choice before he moved on, and he knew that even though Kirk and Spock trusted the sickbay staff implicitly, that it was _McCoy’s_ medical prognoses they trusted above all.  They had to hear it from _him_.  “Go ahead with the regen whenever I’m ready,” McCoy ordered, his voice sure through closed eyes.

 

“We’ll proceed within the hour,” M’Benga nodded.  He turned to Kirk and Spock.  “You are both welcome to wait here during the surgery.  It shouldn’t take more than an hour or so.”

 

He was met with two sets of eyes that demanded to know why he thought they would be anywhere else.

 

***

 

Three hours later, McCoy was returning to consciousness with his traditional post-anesthesia nausea.  Christine rushed over with the antiemetic she had already prepared, to find Kirk holding the basin as McCoy vomited, keeping up a low, steady stream of chatter while Spock supported the physician upright with a grip equal parts strong, steady and gentle. 

 

“Easy Bones,” Kirk was murmuring softly.  “Breathe with me,” he began slowly counting breaths in and out and Christine smiled as she recognized McCoy’s own method of talking Kirk through migraine-induced nausea.

 

“You tryin’ to put me out of a job?” McCoy muttered through clenched teeth as another spasm hit and he heaved violently.

 

Christine reached the bedside and administered the hypo as Kirk grinned innocently, “Who me, Doctor?”  He sighed as the medication began to take effect, helping Spock ease the physician back down.

 

McCoy’s eyes narrowed at Spock’s expression.  “Somethin’ on your mind Spock?” he grumbled.

 

“I was merely observing how your frequent discourses on the superiority of iron-based blood in matters of pharmacology do not seem to prevent you from suffering the same ill effects that _I_ do when subjected to your potions,” Spock intoned, dark eyes sparkling in preparation.

 

McCoy rolled his eyes with a laugh.  “True, Mr. Spock, but at least nestrodon works on _my_ blood _without_ the addition of the three separate adjuvants needed to get _your_ blood to even _accept_ it.  Damn copper-based cells messin’ with chemistry…” McCoy grumbled good-naturedly.

 

Kirk stifled back a laugh in favor of an overly dramatic look.  “Doctor, if I heard correctly, you just _agreed_ with Spock, which either means _I’m_ losing my mind, or _you_ need to rest.”

 

McCoy’s face was perfectly schooled as he fixed Kirk with a concerned look.  “You sure you’re all right Jim?” he asked.

 

“Indeed Captain, you appear to be experiencing auditory hallucinations,” Spock said, sliding a quick glance at McCoy for confirmation.

 

“Thinking I’d ever agree with a green-blooded, walking computer….” McCoy shook his head.

 

“To expect a Vulcan to be able to make sense of such a massive flood of illogic, let alone….” Spock returned.

 

“Very cute, gentlemen,” Kirk chuckled.  It could be quite disturbing how well those two played off each other sometimes, especially when they were ganging up on _him_.  “But I know what I heard.”

 

“All right Jim,” McCoy quirked an eyebrow in concession, barely hiding his smirk.

 

“Very well Captain,” Spock acquiesced behind twinkling eyes.

 

Kirk laughed.  “Get some rest Bones.”

 

“Yes, _Doctor_ ,” McCoy mocked.  His smile softened.  “I expect you two to sleep as well,” he gestured at Kirk and Spock.

 

“Yes Doctor,” Kirk mimicked, ducking a weakly tossed pillow as it glanced by his head.

 

“Shut up Jim,” McCoy drawled tiredly.

 

“Night Bones,” Kirk grinned.

 

“Good night Doctor,” Spock said.

 

***

 

A day later, McCoy’s renal function returned to normal.  With the regeneration a success and his electrolytes back within range, the physician insisted he was ready to return to duty.  M’Benga promptly reminded him that he still needed rest, which McCoy just as promptly ignored by getting up anyway. 

 

An hour later, McCoy woke up to the fuzzy aftereffects of a sedative he never remembered receiving, a PADD on his bedside table along with a set of restraints.  “If you want to avoid _those_ ,” Christine nodded at the restraints on the table, “then you’ll take _this_ ,” she handed him the PADD, “and work from _here_ ,” she patted the bed with a sweetly threatening smile.

 

By that evening, he had already written up the outline for a paper on cordrazine overdose management and he was getting antsy.  Christine was seriously considering sedating him again when Kirk and Spock returned with two suspicious bags.  McCoy was a stickler for dietary prescriptions so she didn’t _think_ he’d be pushing the last few days of his protective renal diet, but she inched closer to watch the conniving trio anyway, hiding behind the guise of inventory in the nearby equipment cabinet.  She watched Kirk pull over a table as Spock began arranging several pieces of equipment and other supplies across the surface.  McCoy picked up something that looked suspiciously like a hypo and began an animated discussion.  Christine grinned as Kirk and Spock leaned in and joined the debate, three sets of eyes flashing with excitement.  She retreated to her desk, heart lighter than it had been in days.

 

When the faint smell of a soldering tool reached the nursing desk, Christine made an educated nursing judgment, deciding that since her patient was no longer on oxygen, that the project he was working on was more likely to keep him both resting in bed _and_ mentally stimulated than is was to explode the sickbay. 

 

When she heard a familiar shout of triumph followed by muted laughter, she knew she had made the right decision.

 

And when, a week later, Doctor McCoy was bouncing high on his toes, grinning away as he led an in-service to sickbay staff regarding new hypo safety modifications that prevented accidental discharge of particularly toxic drugs….she knew she’d make that decision again.

 

Because if anyone could bring back that passion…..

 

……. _they_ would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Medical Notes:  
> \- “Tachypneic” refers to a fast breathing rate (generally considered over 20 breaths per minute).  
> \- A normal heart rate (pulse) is 60 - 100 beats per minute (generally speaking, as some consider a low end of 50 now). A slow heart rate, such as one in the 30s, can cause shortness of breath as the body is not receiving as much oxygen as it requires.  
> \- Atropine is a medication used to increase the heart rate.  
> \- “K” stands for “potassium.” A normal potassium level is around 3.5 – 5.2. This electrolyte is tied to the heart and so too much or too little can cause the heart to go into dangerous rhythms.  
> \- There are several types of heart block. It is a rhythm characterized either by long pauses between the top and bottom chambers of the heart communicating and functioning, or by a lack of communication all together, where each chamber does whatever it wants without syncing with the other.  
> \- “Nestrodon” is a made-up name for an antiemetic medication (something to stop nausea and vomiting).  
> \- We can’t quite do all that cool stuff yet today with nephron regeneration, genetically-matched organ growth and transplantation, or dialysis through patches on the skin that allow for specific removal rates of certain products, but I let my imagination play off of current treatments and promises, so this possible Enterprise-era medicine is based off reality.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: This piece immediately follows the final scene in the Vian laboratory in the third season episode “The Empath.” It can either take the place of the tag scene on the Bridge, or act as a fill-in before that conversation occurs. Either way, you just can’t do a series like this without devoting a chapter to “The Empath” – the loyalty, willingness for self-sacrifice, compassion, looks, and touches in this episode not only showcase McCoy’s beautiful character, but the beauty of the trio’s friendship as a whole. Nurse Mara Govannen and Nurse Elise are original characters from my story “There Were Days.” Thank you for reading.

**5.**

Christine Chapel was raised on old Earth literature.  She inherited a love of the classics from her father, a professor who delighted in introducing his little girl to the beauty of yesterday’s words.  By the age of ten, Christine’s favorite series was Arthur Conan Doyle’s “Sherlock Holmes.”  She was fascinated by the way Holmes solved cases by noticing such seemingly insignificant details; how the obvious was often simply cast aside, a misleading obstacle in the path of true observation. 

 

“The little things are the big things,” her father had summed up the stories.  “Even detectives today follow that rule.”

 

Christine had decided she was going to be a detective.

 

Nine years later she found herself entering nursing school, the rawness of her father’s recent death tempered by steely determination.  Wanting to be able to return to others the knowledge and compassion the nurses had shown _her_ during her father’s last days, Christine had put aside her childish notion.  She would become a nurse.

 

A year into the nursing program, Christine was standing at the bedside of a critically ill patient, watching her instructor turn off the sedation and ask the traditional orientation questions.  The primary nurse’s head suddenly whipped around at the patient’s response.  Christine hadn’t been able to understand why the nurse was so panicked about a patient in intensive care for over two weeks on an amnesiac sedative not knowing where they were. 

 

“She’s _always_ been oriented to person and place,” the nurse had insisted.  “This is different.”

 

Christine barely had time to wonder why a seemingly expected difference was such a cause for concern, before the room suddenly swarmed with people as the nurse shouted for the intensivist and began relaying her assessment.  Change in mental status.  New onset anisocoria.  Cerebral scan.  NOW. 

 

In post-conference that afternoon, Christine’s instructor explained to the group that the patient had suffered an intracranial hemorrhage from the bursting of an unknown aneurysm.  “And those little things told her?” Christine had asked incredulously.

 

The instructor had smiled.  “Those ‘little things’ are more important than any scan we have.  Never ignore a subtle change – changes in patterns don’t have to be big to make a difference.  It’s easy to jump at a monitor flashing red, critical numbers, but a real nurse is more of a detective than anything else.  The little things _are_ the big things.”

 

Christine had burst into tears.  She was going to be a detective after all.

 

As she grew into her nursing career, she became known for her attention to detail.  When she began serving on the Enterprise, she devoted herself to observing the minute patterns of the crew.  And when she found herself treating a suicidal crewmember who had been diagnosed solely by Doctor McCoy calling the young man in due to uneasiness in a change in the man’s daily walk……she knew she had found her Doctor Watson.

 

Christine had been surprised to find that McCoy, for all his old-fashioned tendencies, had never read “Sherlock Holmes.”  He was the best of Holmes’ sharp knowledge and observation combined with Watson’s unwavering dedication, all wrapped up in a warm, compassionate Southern drawl and staggeringly passionate humanity.  He was everything she strove to be, and as they began working together, Christine felt the old childhood delight return as she began living her dream.  McCoy came to trust her observations as much as he trusted his own.  Sometimes a crewman trailing a hand along the wall was simply deep in thought; other times it was an early sign of disorientation from that concussion they didn’t know they had.  Sometimes a Vulcan’s lack of appetite signaled contemplation; other times a nearly fatal catecholamine surge.  They both agreed - it was all about the little things.

 

And so it was when Kirk, Spock and McCoy returned from Minara.

 

Everyone saw the tattered shirt.  The jagged tears throughout the chest and arms, along with the open stripping displaying the vulnerable abdomen were enough, even in the absence of overt blood or bruising, to draw the attention of anyone with even the most rudimentary medical training.

 

The orderlies saw three walking, talking crewmembers enter sickbay.  In the absence of any immediately obvious emergency, one orderly went to prepare two diagnostic beds for the protesting Captain and First Officer being dragged into the room by their insistent CMO.  The other orderly walked toward McCoy, to ascertain what had happened and get his orders.  Both prepared for an afternoon of lengthened Georgian vowels, Vulcan sighs, and wasted human attempts at charm.

 

_Christine_ saw the little things.      

 

She had seen Kirk, Spock and McCoy walk into sickbay together more times than she could count, and almost every single time, Kirk was in the middle.  It was a testament to both Kirk’s sheer magnetism and charisma as a leader as well as the depth of loyalty and friendship he inspired in Spock and McCoy – Kirk was the central charge that Spock and McCoy willingly orbited. 

 

Occasionally, if Spock was injured, _he_ would be in the middle, with a worried Kirk on one side and an equally worried McCoy on the other, blue eyes shining with emotion through the steady stream of sure medical orders.  And Spock, who never missed an opportunity to remind McCoy of his Vulcan heritage, would display a quite human relief at both Kirk and McCoy’s touch. 

 

Vulcans generally preferred not to be touched – a product of both the uncomfortable tendency for others’ emotions to bleed through contact with a touch-telepath and the simple fact that they did not understand the need for it.  Touch was a basic physiological need for humans – they required it to develop and thrive.  Vulcans, as a species, did not.  Christine had watched Spock’s reaction to touch change dramatically in their time on the Enterprise, and she often found him now not only accepting Kirk or McCoy’s touch, but initiating contact as well.  When the three of them were together, they seemed to interact without _any_ regard for personal space.  Their closeness in spirit was displayed in their closeness in action.

 

So, when the three of them walked into sickbay with McCoy in the middle, Christine immediately tuned out the physician’s characteristic grumbling about what they had gotten themselves into now.  She didn’t even notice the shirt.  She saw the barely hidden worry lining Kirk and Spock’s faces.  She saw how, even though McCoy had a light grip on each of them as he pulled them into sickbay, that neither Kirk nor Spock attempted to pull away…..and that it wasn’t from resigned acquiescence – the two of them were subtly leaning _into_ McCoy’s touch, as if reassuring themselves that the physician was actually there.  She saw the same haunted look behind three different sets of eyes….and made the connection.  They weren’t just reassuring themselves.  McCoy was in the middle for _protection_.....Kirk and Spock were maintaining contact in order to keep him _safe_ …..and that haunted shadow meant that, sometime during their time on Minara, they felt they had failed to do so.

 

_Then_ she noticed the shirt.

 

Shit.

 

“What happened?” Christine asked briskly, rushing up to the trio, a clinical eye already giving each of them a cursory sweep.

 

“The Captain needs a full circulatory and pulmonary scan,” McCoy ordered, nudging Kirk forward slightly.  “He may need some time in the decompression chamber.” 

 

“Bones, I feel fine,” Kirk protested.

 

“Just because you _feel_ fine, doesn’t mean one of those nitrogen bubbles won’t suddenly block off circulation to something important,” McCoy chastised.

 

Kirk’s eyes widened.

 

McCoy’s voice softened.  “Jim, I still can’t explain how you even _got_ the bends down there.  I don’t want you running around the ship until I know what’s going on and I’m sure you won’t stroke out, all right?”

 

Christine didn’t miss the brief, desperate flash of fear that flew through Kirk’s eyes at being separated from McCoy anymore than she missed the reluctance with which McCoy let him go. 

 

With an orderly setting up Kirk’s scan, the physician turned his attention to Spock.  “And Mr. Spock needs a shot of his usual antiemetic cocktail,” McCoy continued.

 

Spock stiffened.  “Doctor, I assure you…..” he began.

 

“And I assure _you_ that you’re uncomfortable,” McCoy cut him off.  “Almost everything I give you makes you nauseous and I know that particular sedative _always_ does.  Next time you wanna try lyin’ to me, Spock, I suggest lookin’ a little less green.  You can only explain so much with underlyin’ circulation,” McCoy drawled, giving Spock a pointed look.

 

Spock’s eyebrow quirked.  “Vulcans do not lie, Doctor,” he reminded McCoy.

 

“Semantics, Spock, just go get your meds,” McCoy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose wearily.

 

Christine directed Spock toward a bed with a wave, watching the same reluctance pass through his dark eyes as he stepped away from McCoy.  “I’ll be right with you, Mr. Spock,” she said.

 

With Kirk and Spock gone, Christine fixed McCoy with a serious look.  “What happened?” she repeated, her eyes focused on his torso.

 

“I’m not sure I really _know_ ,” McCoy admitted softly.

 

“Go lay down,” Christine waved him toward one of the biobeds near Kirk and Spock.  “I’ll give Spock his shot and then we can check you out.”

 

“I’ve gotta see what’s goin’ on with Jim,” McCoy insisted, glancing toward the biobed.  “If he still needs decompression, I don’t wanna waste anymore time.”

 

Christine frowned at the slight slur in McCoy’s words.  “M’Benga’s on call – he can take care of the Captain,” she offered.

 

McCoy’s eyes spoke more in that sudden flash of fearful panic than any vehemently voiced negative ever could.  “No need to wake him,” he said.  “I’ll finish up with Jim and Spock, then check myself out.”

 

Christine’s frown deepened.  “Are you sure….”

 

“Please, Chris, I just need…..” McCoy cleared his throat rapidly, “….just let me finish up here,” his eyes pleaded.

 

“All right,” Christine acquiesced, understanding enough to realize that stopping him now was going to do more harm than good.  “But once they’re settled, you’re getting checked out,” she insisted.  “I don’t like the way you look,” she said bluntly. 

 

“Well, ‘s a pity brief separation didn’t increase your appreciation for beauty,” McCoy gave her a lopsided grin.

 

Christine rolled her eyes, but couldn’t quite keep back the little laugh that escaped on her huff.  “That’s not what I meant and you know it,” she chided him before smiling gently. “You know I’ll never get tired of your face.  I just want to see it at its best,” she finished with soft seriousness.

 

McCoy ducked his eyes, scrubbing a hand quickly across his face.  “Thanks Chris.  I’m just tired, really,” he sighed.

 

‘Tired’ was an understatement.  McCoy seemed to be slipping further into exhaustion with each passing moment.  She put a light hand on his arm.  “Go,” she nodded him toward Kirk.

 

McCoy smiled weakly and headed for the bedside. 

 

Fifteen minutes later, Christine was settling Kirk into the decompression chamber as McCoy reassured him, “It won’t be long Jim.  She did most of the work…..half an hour and you’ll be clear.”

 

Christine filed that pronoun away for future inquiry. 

 

“Bones……you should make sure…..” Kirk faltered, reaching for McCoy’s arm as Christine set the final controls.

 

“I will Jim,” McCoy assured him, voice low and gentle.

 

“Spock, go with him,” Kirk looked to his First Officer.

 

“Jim…..” McCoy began.

 

“Bones, please,” Kirk’s voice trembled just under the surface. 

 

Christine looked up in time to see the rest of the sentence shining in Kirk’s eyes – ‘it was too close this time.’

 

_That_ sent her heart racing.  She had seen that fearful mix of despair and relief all too often in McCoy’s eyes after yet another long night in the operating room trying to keep Kirk or Spock alive.  It was heartbreaking _enough_ seeing that emotion in McCoy’s eyes.  Seeing it directed _at_ McCoy was just….. _wrong_.

 

“Indeed Doctor,” Spock added softly.  “I shall accompany you…..”

 

McCoy shook his head.  “No, Spock, you stay here with Jim.”  He held up a hand to cut off the inevitable protests.  “Jim, you _hate_ these things,” McCoy motioned toward the decompression chamber, “and the _last_ thing your body needs right now is the physiological stress of a panic attack.”  He looked to Spock.  “Now Spock may not be able to _entertain_ you, but at least he can help you keep your mind off bein’ stuck in there,” his eyes smirked briefly before exhaustion overtook them again.

 

Kirk chuckled as Spock released one of his long-suffering ‘I don’t know how I deal with you humans’ sighs.  “Bones, promise me,” Kirk grew serious.

 

“I promise, Jim,” McCoy assured him.  “I’m gonna go change,” he glanced down at the tattered shirt with a barely concealed shudder that seemed to spread through Kirk and Spock as well.  “Then I’ll check myself out and meet you both back here, all right?”

 

Kirk and Spock nodded reluctantly.  McCoy stayed until the chamber was sealed, before giving them a tired smile and heading for his office.

 

Christine allowed herself a moment to watch McCoy’s back before whirling on Spock.  “All right, Mr. Spock,” she leveled him with a steady glare, crossing her arms across her chest.  “I am _more_ than ‘unsettled.’  Tell me what I’m dealing with here.”

 

Christine became even more unsettled as Spock launched right into an account of their time on Minara, without so much as a raised eyebrow at her forwardness.  He talked about the Vians, Jim’s interrogation and injuries, the revealing of Gem’s empathetic abilities and the Vians’ demand for Kirk to send one of his friends to their end.  His understated praise at McCoy sedating the Captain faded into hints of perplexed wonder tempered with frustration as he told Christine about McCoy then sedating _him_.  Dark eyes drowning in memory, Spock recalled transporting to the lab, finding McCoy hanging from the chains, and having to tell one friend that another was dying.

 

“What were his injuries?” Christine finally found her voice.

 

Spock handed her the medical scanner for detailed evaluation as he recited the list from a memory that, even had it _not_ been eidetic, would never forget.  “ _Severe heart damage, signs of congestion in both lungs, evidence of massive circulatory collapse.  Internal injuries: bleeding in the chest and abdomen, hemorrhage of the spleen and liver, seventy percent kidney failure_.”

 

Christine stifled a gasp.  She was pretty sure she was observant enough to note that McCoy was not only _alive,_ but _ambulatory_ just now, but with those kinds of injuries…..  “Well then, Mr. Spock, I’m sure you have a _logical_ explanation for why Doctor McCoy is walking around sickbay right now,” she prompted.

 

“Not…..entirely,” Spock admitted.

 

Oh, this was not good.

 

“Gem approached Doctor McCoy and healed the superficial wounds before fear of the severity of his remaining injuries stopped her,” Spock began.  “The Captain and I were…..prevented,” his fingers clenched on that word, “from encouraging her to continue.  However, she returned to the Doctor’s side of her own volition and attempted to heal the life-threatening injuries.  Doctor McCoy would not allow it.”

 

“He _what_?” Christine demanded.

 

“He refused to allow Gem to sacrifice her life for his,” Spock’s voice strained with the memory of bewildered respect and crushing despair.

 

Christine sank into a nearby chair.  Of _course_ he wouldn’t.

 

There were days she hated Hippocrates.

 

“Then how….” Christine floundered.

 

“The Vians kept saying his death was not important,” Kirk replied over the comm unit, eyes shut tightly in a vain attempt to dispel the raw images of a memory that would never truly fade.  “I refused to let them believe that.”

 

Christine looked to Spock for clarification.

 

“The Captain convinced the Vians that their test had succeeded, that Gem had indeed earned the right of survival for her planet…..and that by allowing the Doctor to die when they had the ability to save his life…..they would prove themselves to be everything they considered unworthy of survival,” Spock tensed on those last few words.

 

Kirk cracked open an eye, meeting Spock’s dark gaze with a steady, unspoken addendum: ‘and if they hadn’t, I would have hunted them down.’

 

Spock’s eyes showed no sign of contradiction.

 

“But how did they heal him?” Christine insisted.  “With injuries that severe, it’s not like you can just press a button and make it all go away!”

 

Spock’s eyebrows edged up toward his hairline.

 

Christine was just on the edge of overstressed, hysterical laughter.  Her gut was churning, a sure sign that her day was only going to get worse from here, and now, Spock was messing with her.  She couldn’t help the completely unprofessional response that burst out.  “You’ve _got_ to be kidding me,” she almost laughed.  “Don’t even _joke_ about that,” she ground out.

 

Spock almost looked insulted.  “Nurse Chapel, Vulcans do not joke,” he reminded her firmly.

 

‘Yeah, right,’ Christine muttered to herself, before gathering up her control and forcing a few deep, even breaths.  Time to pull herself together.  She needed this information and, to be honest, curing life-threatening injuries with the push of a button wouldn’t be the _strangest_ thing she had come across in her time with the Enterprise.  “All right, Mr. Spock, what is your hypothesis?” she asked, steady and professional once again.

 

“From my limited study of the devices, I determined them to be control _units_ , not control _mechanisms_ ,” Spock said.  “They were not mechanical devices at all.  Rather, they were attuned to the pattern of electrical energy in the holder’s brain waves and activated by mental command.  When I adapted one such unit to my own electrical pattern, I succeeded in transporting the Captain, Gem and myself to the laboratory by simply thinking it.”

 

“Yes, and they used that same device in their…..interrogations,” Kirk growled through the comm.

 

“So, if they could inflict _injury_ by thought alone, they could also _heal_ by thought alone,” Christine reasoned.  “By simply ‘thinking’ the heart into a healthy, uninjured state, they could make it a reality…..stop bleeding merely by thinking ‘stop.’”  She let out an incredulous breath.  “That’s unbelievable,” she said.

 

“Nonetheless, it _is_ the most logical explanation,” Spock agreed with her theory.

 

Christine shook her head.  Her amazement was quickly fading into uneasiness.  It _was_ unbelievable…..

 

Detective work wasn’t just minute details.  It was also about eliminating the impossible.  Whatever was left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.

 

She wasn’t so sure that device was impossible.

 

Her gut was screaming that it was more likely _fallible_.

 

It took every ounce of professional calm to keep Christine from bolting upright and running out the door.  Standing up slowly, she double-checked the decompression chamber before nodding toward sickbay.  “I’m going to go see if Doctor McCoy needs help with that scan,” she offered.  “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, when you’re done,” she told Kirk.

 

Kirk nodded through the viewing window.  Christine wasn’t sure which thought worried her more: that the flicker of concern in Kirk’s eyes was due to her inability to hide her _own_ thoughts…….or that he felt it too.

 

Feeling Spock’s eyes on her back, Christine forced herself to walk calmly until she was out of view.  After that, she sprinted through the rest of sickbay, barely landing a knock on the door before bursting into McCoy’s office. 

 

She _hoped_ for a quirked eyebrow and drawled Southern colloquialism about chickens without heads.

 

She _feared_ an emergency she’d be fifteen minutes too late to turn around.

 

She _found_ a sleeping physician.

 

Christine put a hand to the wall, supporting herself through several deep breaths as she composed herself.  McCoy was slumped at his desk, head down on folded arms, the tattered shirt still present and fluttering slightly with his exhalations.  The poor man was asleep and here she was bursting into his office like sickbay was on fire.

 

Why wouldn’t her heart stop pounding?

 

Christine stepped over to McCoy.  “Doctor,” she said softly, leaning close to his ear.

 

No response.

 

Christine frowned.  McCoy was a light sleeper, used to jumping out of bed at all hours when needed.  She put a hand on his shoulder and shook him lightly.  “Doctor,” she repeated.

 

No response……and why was he so _cold_?

 

Fatigue.

 

She reached a hand under the shirt.

 

Cold, clammy skin.

 

She shook him again.

 

Loss of consciousness.

 

Realization hit her like a shuttlecraft to the chest. 

 

Shock.

 

Sometimes she hated her gut.

 

One arm stretched for a nearby tricorder while the other hit the comm.  “Elise, get Mara and M’Benga down here and meet me in McCoy’s office with a gurney _now_ ,” she ordered the responding nurse.

 

“What do you have?” Elise asked briskly, already on her feet and calling for a gurney.

 

“Shock, unresponsive, I’ll have more to tell you when you get here,” Christine clipped, the sound of the medical tricorder humming to life around her.

 

“Got it,” Elise ended the transmission.

 

Christine’s eyes flew over the basic vitals.  Heart rate way up.  BP crashing.  She grabbed a clammy hand from under McCoy’s head.  Pale extremities, capillary refill over five seconds.  Still unconscious.

 

“ _I’m just tired, really_ ,” she recalled McCoy’s words.

 

Damn self-sacrificing physicians.  Damn ineffective Vian cures.

 

I’m just tired, my _ass_.

 

Elise rushed in with an orderly and a gurney, Mara and M’Benga close behind.  “Tell me what you have Christine,” M’Benga’s ever-calm lilt rose above the chaos.

 

“Heart rate 145, BP 65/30, resps 30, unresponsive to voice, touch or pain, skin cold with pale extremities, capillary refill over five seconds.  He suffered severe internal injuries on the planet which were supposedly healed by a thought-controlled Vian device,” Christine’s rapid-fire assessment faltered on that last piece.

 

“Thought-controlled healing device?” Mara sputtered as she leaned over McCoy’s now supine form on the gurney, desperately attempting to find a vein.

 

“What injuries?” M’Benga pushed on, pulling the gurney out into sickbay as Elise placed the oxygen mask and Mara swore at another failed attempt to establish IV access.

 

“You’re gonna need a central line,” Mara threw at M’Benga.  “Everything’s collapsing,” she growled at McCoy’s veins.

 

Elise ran to grab fluids and set up for line insertion as soon as the gurney cleared the door.

 

Christine began rattling off Spock’s list of McCoy’s injuries as they ran, cutting off prematurely as the gurney stopped at the biobed so she could throw the tricorder strap around her neck and help shift McCoy over.

 

The monitors woke with a scream.

 

“We know!” Mara shouted at the flashing, critical values, reaching up and punching the silence button.

 

M’Benga threw his hands under the sterilite as Elise prepped McCoy’s chest.  “Continue, Christine,” he said.

 

Mara began priming several bags of fluid as M’Benga began inserting the subclavian line.  “BP’s down to sixty systolic.  At this rate, he’ll be down in the fifties before we can even start pumping his previously compromised lungs fill of fluid,” she glared at the monitor.

 

“There!” M’Benga nearly shouted as Christine finished talking.  “Elise, please confirm placement.  Mara, prepare the first bolus.  Christine, give me a hematology report.”

 

Elise ran another tricorder over McCoy’s chest.  “Placement confirmed,” she reported.

 

“Mara….” M’Benga began.

 

“Running a liter wide open,” Mara confirmed, hooking up a bag of fluid and opening the clamp all the way.

 

Christine swore as the hematology scan finished. 

 

M’Benga noticed immediately.  “Elise, prepare four units of B+ to start with and let me know how much more we have on board.”

 

Mara’s eyes widened in sudden understanding.  “It’s hemorrhagic?” she groaned.

 

M’Benga nodded.  “Christine, H&H please.”

 

“5.9 and 20.”

 

“Shit!” Mara rushed to set up a transfusion unit. 

 

“If Leonard was bleeding into both the chest and abdomen, with hemorrhage of the spleen and liver, he would have become hypovolemic quite rapidly,” M’Benga said.

 

“So much for thought-controlled healing devices,” Mara snorted, looking up as Elise came running back in with the blood.

 

“It was _fallible_ ,” Christine breathed.  “The Vians could ‘think’ the bleeding to stop, but they probably never even _thought_ of ‘thinking’ to restore what was lost.  Without knowledge of human physiology, they wouldn’t have realized that stopping the bleeding isn’t enough, that the body can’t just rapidly reproduce the amount of blood that can be lost, _especially_ in the abdominal cavity.”

 

“Agreed,” M’Benga nodded.  “The Vians saw the bleeding as the injury and they fixed it.  It is easy to forget the consequences of such volume loss on the body as a whole.”

 

Sometimes, Christine hated how accurate her gut could be.

 

Elise began loading the first unit of blood into the transfuser as Mara swapped out the empty bag of fluids for another.  M’Benga was frowning at McCoy’s oxygen saturation and ordering that a ventilator be moved to the bedside, just in case.  Christine was about to grab the catheterization supplies to monitor McCoy’s urinary output, when she noticed the time.

 

“Dammit, I have to get the Captain out of decompression,” she swore.

 

“Go on,” M’Benga said.  “We’re all right here.”

 

Christine bit back a retort on how those numbers weren’t even _close_ to ‘all right’ before trudging toward the decompression room.  As she neared the door, she suddenly realized she was about to walk into another problem.

 

She had promised to call them, if anything happened to McCoy. 

 

Rationally, she knew she had perfectly good reasons to have waited.  She was in the middle of an emergency.  Kirk was in decompression. 

 

Somehow, she _knew_ she was in for an argument anyway.

 

Spock looked up as Christine walked in just as the chamber chimed a cycle completion.  His eyes clouded at her entrance and he stood up stiffly.

 

Great.  It was starting already.  Damn perceptive Vulcans.

 

Christine checked Kirk’s vitals and opened the chamber.  Her routine post-decompression instructions were interrupted by wild hazel eyes and a demanding tone.  “Where’s Bones?”

 

Christine could almost _feel_ Spock moving in on her, the same question in every tight line of his body.  “He’s being treated,” she began, before Kirk’s sudden jump to his feet startled her into action.

 

“Oh, no you don’t,” she shouted, grabbing Kirk’s arm and pushing him toward an empty chair.  “Don’t you _dare_ dishonor him that way.”

 

Kirk was stunned into place.  “Excuse me?”  His voice was ice.

 

Christine’s voice was the arctic razor winds of Mineus II.  “You heard me.  Now sit down and I’ll tell you what you need to know.”

 

“You’re out of line Nurse,” Kirk growled.

 

“No Captain, _you_ are,” Christine pushed right back.  “Doctor McCoy is in hemorrhagic shock right now because he sacrificed himself to keep both of you safe.  I _will_ not let you put your health, the health he suffered to preserve, in jeopardy because you can’t sit down and listen like a rational human being for three minutes.  Now you can put me up on charges for insubordination all you like, but I respect him too much to take back a word I’ve just said.  It’s your call,” she finished firmly, eyes flashing.

 

Kirk sat.

 

“You stated the Doctor is suffering from hemorrhagic shock,” Spock prompted Christine, neutral voice betrayed by the slightest spark of admiration amidst the worry as he circled behind Kirk’s chair, standing slightly behind and to the left, a constant support.

 

Christine proceeded to explain how she found McCoy, the diagnostic process and the emergency efforts underway.  She soothed Kirk’s flare of anger at the Vians, explaining that it wasn’t malicious intent, but rather, physiological ignorance that led to the present crisis.

 

Spock was the one who finally asked.

 

“I understand you were in the midst of an emergency and your presence was required to stabilize Doctor McCoy,” he started, “but I fail to understand why no one else could have informed the Captain and myself of the seriousness of the matter.”

 

Christine sighed heavily, dropping her face into her hands for a moment before looking up into those dark, placid eyes and letting her mouth run away with her, for what seemed like the hundredth time that day.  “Because I know how you’ll both react and I didn’t trust any one else to tell you properly.  Because I was the only one who had even the _slightest_ medical history on Doctor McCoy and I needed to be there to theorize on that data.  Because when a patient is crashing, the more hands there are the faster things can get done and that little bit of time can be the difference between life and death.  Because if I, or someone else, came and told you, that it would just create new problems.  Mr. Spock, you would have been torn between leaving the Captain’s side and going to Doctor McCoy’s.  Captain, if Mr. Spock had left, you would have panicked, worrying about Doctor McCoy as well as being alone in the chamber, and you would have worked yourself into a respiratory emergency that would have taken valuable hands from McCoy’s care.  If you had demanded to end the treatment early, run into sickbay with nitrogen bubbles still coursing through your veins, and clotted circulation to a major organ, you would have both created another emergency and proven that you _still_ don’t understand why Doctor McCoy put himself in that dangerous position to begin with.  He left the two of you where you were because he _knows_ you, he _knew_ that arrangement would be the safest all around and I _had_ to honor that.”  Christine took a breath.  “So, go ahead and pick whichever reason works for you Mr. Spock,” she finished wearily.

 

The room was silent for a long moment before Kirk stood.  He lightly grasped Christine’s upper arms before ducking to meet her eyes.  “Thank you,” he said simply, those two words infused with a depth of gratitude that nearly bowled her over.

 

Christine relaxed into Kirk’s grasp.  “I care about him too, Captain,” she said softly.

 

“I know,” Kirk’s voice was equally gentle.  “And I’m glad _somebody_ can take over for Bones,” he smiled at her disturbingly accurate diatribe.

 

Christine allowed a small smile to lighten her face.  “Come on,” she nodded toward sickbay.  “I’ll take you over there.”

 

And so, the fourth time she calls, she does it in person……after acting willfully insubordinate in front of the two superior officers who happened to be McCoy’s best friends.

 

***

 

The monitors were still flashing red, the blood and fluids were still pouring in, and the crash cart and ventilator were still casting ominous, silent shadows toward the controlled chaotic dance of revival, but Christine simply took heart in the fact they weren’t in use before calmly steering Kirk and Spock into the fray, settling them at McCoy’s side where they belonged, and beginning a quiet litany of explanation as her hands naturally found tasks to be done and joined back in.

 

An hour and numerous pints of blood later, M’Benga set aside the tricorder and ordered a drop in fluid rate and a break in transfusions. 

 

Two hours later, Mara’s assessment of McCoy’s vitals went from ‘shit’ to ‘less shitty.’  The monitors flashed down to yellow. 

 

Three hours later, the silent, steady support of Kirk and Spock overshadowed the emergency equipment and it was moved aside as McCoy’s vitals settled into low normal, his oxygenation holding in the nineties and his temperature finally allowing Christine to lower the mattress heat by a degree.

 

Four hours later, as Christine was checking the peripheral pulse of a cool, but significantly warmer wrist, she noticed Kirk’s hands.  His right hand hadn’t left McCoy’s arm since she had brought him into the room, but as she reached over to check McCoy’s other pulse, she caught Kirk’s left hand fisted in his lap, along with a flash of blue. 

 

It was McCoy’s tattered shirt.

 

They had cut it off during the emergency.  Kirk must have found it on the floor and he was slowly winding the battered material around that clenched hand until the skin blanched and he dropped it, before starting all over again.

 

Christine’s heart ached, but she let it go.

 

Ten hours after crashing, McCoy started to wake up.

 

“Captain,” Spock called softly from his place immediately to Kirk’s left.

 

Kirk’s head jerked up from the bed.  “What is it?” his voice breathless from uneasy sleep.

 

McCoy groaned, a thin, reedy sound.

 

Kirk jumped to his feet as if it was the sweetest sound since warp engines firing in a crisis.  “Bones?”

 

McCoy’s eyelids fluttered weakly.

 

“Doctor, it is time to open your eyes,” Spock’s voice was low and gentle.

 

“Come on, Bones,” Kirk pleaded.

 

Cloudy blue blinked open, squinting in confusion before slowly tracking the ceiling.

 

“Here, Bones,” Kirk gently turned McCoy’s face toward him and Spock.

 

McCoy blinked sluggishly before his eyes slowly slid into focus.  He gave Kirk and Spock a slow, weary smile.  The oxygen mask amplified the harsh length of his indrawn breath.

 

Kirk tightened his grip on McCoy’s face slightly, both hands cupping the physician’s ears.  “Don’t speak,” he said.  “Just…. take it easy.  You’re safe on the ship,” he nearly choked on the words.

 

McCoy squinted at Kirk, his gaze slowly drifting toward Spock with the same unspoken need. 

 

“The Captain and I are well, Doctor,” Spock assured him.  “Your treatments were successful and we have suffered no lasting effects.”

 

McCoy swallowed thickly, managing a slight smile again before his eyes slid shut.

 

Christine smiled.  It was the first time Kirk and Spock had spoken in six hours.

 

And Kirk’s hand had relaxed in his lap.

 

***

 

Twenty-four hours after McCoy’s diagnosis, he was sitting up slightly in bed, the oxygen downsized to a nasal cannula while he was awake and reliably able to regulate his breathing.  The fluids continued at a decreased maintenance rate while another scheduled unit of blood transfused into his left arm.

 

Christine was walking by to check the mid-transfusion vitals when soft voices stopped her in her tracks.

 

“Bones…..why did you do it?” Kirk’s low voice was laced with pain.

 

“I must admit Doctor, I am also at a loss to explain your actions.  The decision was to have been mine,” Spock added.

 

McCoy’s weakened body wasn’t quite ready to let go of the volume of air he usually huffed in response.  He choked on the exhalation, leaning into Kirk and Spock’s support as they held him through desperate attempts to recapture his breath.  “Thanks,” he croaked, taking a tiny sip of the water Kirk offered.  He collapsed back against the bed, turning his head so he could glare at Kirk and Spock.  “Now, there was no way I was gonna let you two damned fools kill yourselves in some stupid self-sacrificial stunt,” he answered, the weakness of his traditional growl augmented by the fire in his eyes.

 

“So you did it instead?” Kirk demanded.  “How is that better?”

 

McCoy sighed.  “Jim, if you had made that decision in your condition, the emotional strain would have killed you.”  He turned his gaze to Spock.  “And before you give me some nonsense about brain damage and insanity not equalin’ death, Mr. Spock, let me remind you, as you so often remind _me_ , that you are _Vulcan_ …..and for a Vulcan to lose his mind and his sanity…..to lose all vestiges of logic and rational thought….well, that would have been _worse_ than death.”

 

Spock swallowed at McCoy’s clarity.

 

Kirk fought to keep his voice even.  “So you get yourself tortured within moments of death and then refuse Gem’s help,” he hissed, “while we’re powerless to do anything but watch.”

 

“Jim, you once reminded me that I took an oath long before joinin’ this crew.  Do no harm.  I’m a doctor, dammit, and standin’ around waitin’ for you two to harm yourselves when I had the means to prevent it…..it would’ve been just as bad as withholdin’ treatment.  A sin of omission is a sin just the same.  As for Gem, you _know_ I couldn’t accept that, Jim,” McCoy’s voice cracked with emotion.  “To destroy life, even to save my own, is against everything I believe, every oath I’ve taken.  I’d rather have died.”

 

“I’d rather you lived,” Kirk whispered selfishly.

 

“And I wanted _you_ two to live,” McCoy threw back, eyes shuttering with fatigue.  Drawing in a slow breath, he forced his eyes open again to focus on Kirk and Spock.  “I don’t like my patients takin’ chances with their lives, and I damn well won’t tolerate my fool-headed friends doin’ the same.  I’m used to protectin’ you two in sickbay…..this time I got to do it without bein’ elbow-deep in your internal organs.”  McCoy shrugged.  “It was worth it.”

 

Kirk watched McCoy sink further into the bed with exhaustion.  “Well, next time, let’s try it without _any_ of us ending up like this,” he acquiesced, motioning around sickbay.

 

McCoy smiled weakly through hooded eyes.  “Deal,” he agreed.

 

“Agreed, Jim,” Spock said quietly, before shaking his head gently at McCoy.  “I do not believe I will ever truly understand your mind, Doctor,” his voice warmed with subtle respect.

 

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Spock,” McCoy murmured.

 

“I believe it was, Doctor,” Spock replied.

 

Kirk gaped at the two of them.  “All right, you two, knock it off,” he groaned.  Kirk swore the two of them would start agreeing with each other _just_ to mess with him.

 

“Why thank you, Mr. Spock,” McCoy grinned.

 

“My pleasure, Doctor McCoy,” Spock returned, eyes dancing.

 

“Bones…..Spock…..” Kirk threatened.

 

McCoy reached for Kirk’s arm, giving it a light squeeze, blue eyes bright with emotion before closing as he finally succumbed to sleep.

 

When Christine returned fifteen minutes later, after composing herself in the office, she found that Spock had moved to the opposite side of McCoy’s bed.  With Kirk on one side and Spock on the other, her mind flashed back to their entrance into sickbay.

 

McCoy was safe in the middle.

 

And when Christine looked at Kirk’s hands, one was rubbing at suspiciously red eyes, while the other was resting lightly on McCoy’s arm.

 

The tattered shirt was lying discarded on the ground.

 

***

 

Forty-eight hours after McCoy’s diagnosis, he was arguing something with Spock, the one arm that wasn’t currently involved in a transfusion passionately punctuating his speech.  A dry Vulcan response led him to literally bounce up on the bed as he threw himself further into the debate. 

 

Five minutes later, Spock put out a steadying hand as McCoy swayed precariously, physiological lack catching up with mental desire.  He lowered the head of the bed slowly until McCoy nodded his comfort, and they resumed their discussion at a more sedate pace.

 

McCoy’s eyes were just beginning to close when Kirk returned from checking in on the Bridge.  The physician gave him a quick smile and whispered something before closing his eyes that made Kirk throw back his head and laugh. 

 

Kirk took up his position across from Spock.  With McCoy safely ensconced between them, the two officers leaned forward across the bed and began a quiet discussion.

 

Christine’s eyes brightened as they mirrored each other’s position, fingers steepled under chins, elbows lightly brushing McCoy.

 

Kirk shifted his chair closer to the bed, glancing at the floor.  He looked up and met Christine’s eyes across the room with a soft, appreciative smile.

 

The tattered shirt was gone.

 

Christine smiled as Kirk’s world narrowed back down to three.  She walked over to the desk, removed the shirt from the bottom drawer, and sent it down to the medical incinerator.

 

Kirk didn’t need it anymore.  None of them did.

 

The frayed cloth was a tangible, unnecessary reminder of a pain they wouldn’t soon forget.

 

The protective positioning of Kirk and Spock, the light, relieved contact they maintained with McCoy’s relaxed form, and the soft light of friendship that shone in three different sets of eyes…..those were the little reminders of a strength and promise they wouldn’t soon break.

 

Christine smiled.  _That’s_ what mattered.

 

Because in the end…..

 

………….It was all about the little things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Medical Notes:
> 
> \- “Traditional orientation questions” refers to determining whether a patient is oriented to person (knows who they are), place (where they are) and time (the relative date)  
> \- “Anisocoria” refers to unequal pupil sizes  
> \- “Sometimes a Vulcan’s lack of appetite signaled contemplation; other times a nearly fatal catecholamine surge” refers to the second season episode “Amok Time.”  
> \- McCoy’s comment about all his medications making Spock nauseous refers to Spock’s own comment on the matter in the second season episode “The Apple.”  
> \- Spock’s italicized recitation of McCoy’s injuries on Minara is taken verbatim from “The Empath.”  
> \- M’Benga “confirming placement” is making sure the central IV line in McCoy’s subclavian vein is in the proper place before being used.   
> \- “H&H” stands for “hemoglobin and hematocrit”, two laboratory values that measure the body’s ability to transport oxygen and the volume of red blood cells. Normal hemoglobin in an adult male is approximately 14-18, a normal hematocrit 40-50. Severe bleeding causes these numbers to drop significantly.  
> \- “Jim, you once reminded me that I took an oath long before joinin’ this crew” refers to the second season episode “Friday’s Child” when Kirk insists McCoy honor his oath and stay with the newborn child rather than help find the fleeing mother.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: This piece ties heavily into the second season episodes “Friday’s Child” and “Mirror, Mirror” and takes place five years after the events in those episodes. I have set the timeline on the basis that each season of the show depicted a year of the Enterprise’s five-year mission. Assuming then that these two episodes occurred during the second year of the first five-year mission, this chapter takes place during the second year of the second five-year mission. I have attempted to designate any dialogue quoted from the episodes with either italics or quotes, but, particularly in the case of the Capellans, there may be some phrasing borrowed for cultural consistency that is not specifically noted. I re-watched both of these episodes numerous times in order to accurately portray the events that took place and to try and create possible Capellan traditions. I hope I was able to do the material credit. In addition to Nurse Mara Govannen and Zan the orderly, I also borrowed a few paragraphs from “There Were Days” for one scene – it was exactly what I needed to expand the scene, so I adapted it here. Thank you again for reading.

**6.**

It all came down to the Capellan mission.

 

To Leonard James Akaar’s coming-of-age ceremony.

 

To a five year grudge….

 

…..and a five year secret.

 

“He froze.  They grabbed his wrist and he just….. _froze_.”

 

***

 

They had a routine.  In the final pre-mission hours, Christine would give McCoy an hour to prepare an initial medkit.  She would go about her rounds, catch up on charting and other administrative tasks, and pretend not to hear the physician’s quiet, wary rambling as his experienced mind began whirling with potential emergencies.  Once McCoy disassembled the first kit, Christine would join him – she’d listen to the renewed rambling, validate the possibilities, dismiss the very few _im_ possibilities (even as the Enterprise seemed destined to remove that word from their vocabulary), suggest other situations and treatments, and just generally act as a second medical mind and sounding board.  McCoy would begin by musing on his usual pre-mission topics: what Kirk could possibly get himself into, what _Spock_ could possibly get himself into, how he could possibly keep them alive long enough to get back to the Enterprise, and how to _continue_ keeping them alive once aboard.  Then he and Christine would move into the likely, followed by the _un_ likely situations that could happen to both the crew and the native population of the assigned planet.  Between the two of them, they tended to cover most eventualities, and McCoy would give Christine a soft, grateful smile before doing what he always did: grabbing his medkit with steely determination, entering the dreaded transporter room, and taking his place at Kirk and Spock’s side.

 

It was a routine that had served them well for seven years; one that she looked forward to continuing as she headed for the prep room…..

 

…..only to find an extra set of voices threatening that very continuation.

 

Christine frowned as she glanced around the doorframe to find Kirk leaning against the far wall, Spock a few steps away, hands behind his back, dark eyes splitting their focus between the only two men he called ‘friend.’  She groaned silently.  Of all the times Kirk and Spock could have stopped by, it just _had_ to be now?  For someone who worked in a highly unpredictable field on an even _more_ unpredictable vessel, Christine Chapel certainly wasn’t blind to the irony of the fact that one of her greatest coping mechanisms involved the word ‘routine.’  As a nurse she thrived on the constant unpredictability, but outside her professional persona she found herself oddly comforted by certain routines and, to her embarrassment, found herself easily upset when they were interrupted or changed:  biweekly tea with Nyota; monthly back-to-back readings of the newest issues of the Journal of Integrative Psychology and Annals of Complementary Nursing Techniques; closing her eyes at the end of a long day and listening to old holotapes of her father reading Sherlock Holmes in a perfectly studied Victorian accent…….. 

 

……..Pre-mission medkit assembly and discussion with McCoy.

 

Christine ducked behind the wall, leaned her head against the solid support, and forced herself to run through the deep breathing exercises she encouraged in all her anxious patients.  Realizing the problems with her initial desire to stride in and kick two of her commanding officers out on the basis of nothing more than the interruption of a routine she valued, Christine pushed past her irrational need to “put things right” and peeked around the corner.  Pulling in a deep breath, she chastised herself for such selfish thoughts.  For all _she_ knew, McCoy _needed_ this conversation with Kirk and Spock right now.

 

“Hey Bones, does Johanna know she has a little brother?” Kirk’s eyes shone with mischief as he leaned forward slightly toward his CMO.

 

Said CMO glared up at Kirk from the scattered instruments and medications on the table in front of him.  “That’s not very damn funny,” McCoy growled, tucking another hypo into his kit.

 

Christine let that breath out hard as she watched McCoy’s shoulders tense.  Okay, maybe he _didn’t_ need this conversation right now. 

 

“Come on, Bones,” Kirk cajoled, “this is ‘your’ child….. _our_ namesake…..being recognized as a Capellan warrior and officially assuming his role as leader of the Ten Tribes…..”

 

“ _If_ he is the victor in today’s combat,” Spock interjected.

 

Christine rolled her eyes a split second before Kirk did.

 

 “ _Thank_ you, Mr. Spock,” Kirk sighed, exasperated as his attempt to lighten the mood hit an abrupt end. 

 

Spock simply raised an eyebrow.

 

“Jim….” McCoy began.

 

Christine held her breath, silently shouting for McCoy to voice what his body language so desperately screamed.

 

Kirk interrupted swiftly.  “I’m sorry, Bones,” he apologized softly.  “I don’t like it either,” he admitted, nodding down toward the planet.  “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” he focused a concerned gaze on McCoy’s strained features. 

 

“Jim, you said it best when we got the message - diplomatically, we don’t have much of a choice.  When the Regent of the High Teer of the Ten Tribes of Capella IV requests your presence at her son’s coming-of-age ceremony, you can’t exactly say ‘no,’” McCoy pointed out with a weary chuckle.  “Besides,” he continued, “no outsider has ever seen this ceremony.  We’ll never get an anthropological opportunity like this again.”

 

“You didn’t answer my question,” Kirk watched him closely.

 

McCoy simply looked up, locking eyes with Kirk in a deep, wordless response, before ducking his gaze to continue sorting through several medication cartridges, brows drawn in concentration.  “I’ve seen this ceremony before, with the village children, so at least _I_ know what to expect.  I’m _more_ worried about you,” he met Kirk’s eyes, reflecting a magnified image of that same concerned gaze back from blue to hazel.

 

Christine blew out her breath with a frustrated sigh.  “Here we go again,” she muttered to herself as McCoy shifted his focus to Kirk.  Her mind focused on the conversation anew, seeking out the right place to step in. 

 

“It’s just not right, Bones…..children killing children,” Kirk ground out, fists clenched angrily.

 

“But they aren’t children anymore, Jim, not according to Capellan tradition and development.  A five year old Capellan is nearly equivalent to a fifteen year old human,” McCoy reminded Kirk with gentle firmness touched with mournful agreement.

 

“Fifteen year olds _are_ still children,” Kirk muttered.

 

McCoy’s eyebrow quirked as he gave a Kirk a weary, weighted smile.  “Chekov was starting first year classes at the Academy at fifteen,” he pointed out.

 

“Chekov is _still_ a child,” Kirk sighed, stretching his back as if feeling his age.

 

Christine watched McCoy’s left hand shift, immediately recognizing the gesture as an aborted attempt to rub the bridge of his nose.  A slight turn of his head back to the scattered medkit sealed her decision - it was time to get their routine back on track.  It wasn’t about _her_ irrational needs anymore – it was about _his_ needs…..which, thankfully, just happened to fit perfectly with hers right now.  Pushing aside her guilt at that thought while simultaneously cursing the depth of ingrained coping behaviors, Christine pulled herself together.  Once McCoy started focusing on someone else, his own needs went unanswered. 

 

This was where she came in.

 

Showtime.

 

“I wouldn’t let Chekov hear you say that, sir,” Christine nodded to Kirk’s previous statement with a teasing smile as she strode into the room.

 

Kirk’s head shot up with a sheepish half-smile.

 

Christine reassured him with a conspiratorial wink as she continued, “Because you just _know_ that he would respond with half an hour on the benefits of youthful Russian genes.”

 

She sighed, relieved, as McCoy’s chuckle rode just under the current of Kirk’s laughter.  Even Spock appeared to incline his head in rueful agreement.  

     

Christine turned to McCoy, her smile still bright as she surveyed the scattered vials with a professional air.  “How many more vials of fibrephyton?” she asked, nodding toward the isolated pile of medication to McCoy’s right.

 

A grateful smile lit McCoy’s eyes as some of the tension slipped from his shoulders.  “Another four would be great Chris,” he replied.  “Thanks.”

 

“How much of that stuff do you _need_ , Bones?” Kirk asked incredulously, staring at the six vials already set aside.

 

“With _you_ two? At _least_ that much,” McCoy shot back with a pointed drawl, gesturing toward the table.  “But considering its value in local venous and arterial coagulation in humans, Vulcans, _and_ Capellans, I’d prefer to err on the side of excess this time,” he finished, voice softening slightly as he added, with a hint of familiar, teasing humor, “if that’s all right with you, _Captain_.”

 

“Oh I’m sure the Captain would agree,” Christine smiled sweetly as she returned with the extra cartridges.  “As he most certainly remembers that each five cc dose uses a full hypo cartridge and that the dosing schedule of q ten……”

 

“All right, all right,” Kirk interrupted, throwing his hands up in an ‘I give up’ defensive response.  “Point taken, _Nurse_ ,” he met Christine’s gaze with dancing eyes before nodding to McCoy, “ _Doctor_ ,” he excused himself, touching Spock’s arm lightly as he headed for the door.  “I believe it’s time we left them to it,” he said to Spock, nodding back at Christine and McCoy.

 

“A wise decision Captain,” Spock intoned, pleased warmth at the familiar teasing dance rippling just under the stern inflection as he followed Kirk out of the room.

 

“You know, sometimes I wonder where you keep all that sass young lady,” McCoy grinned as met Christine’s pleased smile.

 

“I pin it up with this mess,” Christine grinned back, touching the tousled mound of hair at her crown.  McCoy snorted back a laugh and she felt the last of anxiety’s chill thaw with the familiar warmth of their give and take.  “Besides, seven years with you could bring the Southerner out of an _Orion_ , let alone a gal with distant Louisiana roots,” she added.

 

McCoy chuckled.  “I suppose we _all_ rub off on one another out here,” he gestured widely, beyond the walls.

 

“Can’t say I’m not grateful sometimes,” Christine said softly before sharpening her focus to the gutted medkit.  She perched one hip on the edge of the table and reached across McCoy’s workspace, moving the fibrephyton aside and lining the vials up alongside Kirk’s migraine medication and Spock’s antiemetic cocktail.  She noted the record tape on Capellan obstetrics with a brief shake of her head before meeting McCoy’s eyes with a ready smile.  “All right, so tell me what you’re thinking,” she began.

 

McCoy’s shoulders dropped into relaxed familiarity, the smile on his lips softening the sudden distance in his eyes as he began to think out loud. 

 

Christine leaned into the table with a relieved sigh.  It may have been irrational, but they _both_ needed this.  An hour later, McCoy gave her that warm, grateful smile, gathered up the medkit, and headed for the transporter room.  Christine allowed herself another moment in that peaceful comfort, straightened her shoulders, and returned to work.

 

Routine.

 

***

 

Christine was reviewing McCoy’s previous account of Capellan coming-of-age ceremonies when Uhura’s soothing lilt brightened the room.  “Hiya sugar,” Uhura greeted.  “Am I taking you away from anything?” she nodded toward the PADD.

 

“Nothing I wouldn’t mind getting away from,” Christine replied, pushing the PADD aside gratefully.

 

Uhura glanced down at the screen, sadness shadowing her expressive face.  “I don’t know how Dr. McCoy can stand it,” she sighed.  “Watching two young men fight to the death to prove their worth as warriors, and knowing he can’t treat the victor’s injuries or ease the dying’s passing.”

 

“Only the strong should survive,” Christine quoted Capellan tradition softly.

 

“And only the strong could watch a child he delivered into this world fight the child of the man who led the coup on his father all while being denied acknowledgement of the very core of his soul,” Uhura said.  “A healer in a world that values death above life.”  She sighed heavily.  “I don’t know how he can stand it,” she repeated mournfully.

 

“A patient asked him,” Christine replied simply, “and he’ll give you the Captain’s and Mr. Spock’s Starfleet reasoning about maintaining good relationships for continuation of the mining treaty and furthering Anthropological Sciences by obtaining an accurate account of the coming-of-age ceremony of a High Teer on a world that shuns outsiders….but what it really comes down to is that Eleen _asked_ him.  The patient that he treated through childbirth, the woman who named a child after him against all tradition on her world, requested his presence at the most important event in that child’s life.  So, he went.”  Christine paused, biting her lip thoughtfully.  “And honestly, I think he’s hoping some of those changes have stuck…..and that maybe, things won’t end as they always have.  It’s said the Teer has the power to grant life.  Maab granted Eleen back _her_ life; maybe the child of that woman, the one who also finally allowed an outsider to touch her, treat her injured arm, guide her through childbirth, and teach her to want her newborn…..maybe she’s taught that child that it’s not a weakness to use that power.”

 

Some of the darkness lifted from Uhura’s face as hope flickered in her eyes.  “Maybe,” she agreed, smiling gently as she added, “he _does_ have that gift.”

 

Christine felt herself smile in return.  Kirk’s righteous passion for justice and Spock’s serene logic easily overshadowed the subtlety of McCoy’s quiet compassion and humanity…. .It was much easier to see the governments Kirk changed, or the science Spock improved than it was to see the _people_ McCoy affected.  She shook herself from her introspection, turning back to Uhura with a lighter smile.  “So, what brings you down here, Nyota?” she asked warmly.

 

Uhura perched herself on the edge of the desk, the last of the sadness swept from her dark eyes as they brightened with camaraderie.  “Mr. Roberts took over for a little while,” she explained.  “There’s not much to monitor until the landing party checks in again – the Capellans have no transmitting devices or media to follow and the Starfleet mining team is too far from the settlements to pick up any activity….” Uhura grinned devilishly, “…so I took advantage of my position and gave my aching ear a rest.”

 

“You pulled rank on Roberts?” Christine chuckled.

 

“Half an hour away from that earpiece does wonders for the spirit, sugar,” Uhura laughed.  “You know….”

 

The comm beeped twice, cutting Uhura off, before whistling to life.  Christine was already on her feet at the emergency signal, implementing nursing protocol, when Scotty’s voice followed with a brisk, “medical team to transporter room.” 

 

Uhura dropped lightly to her feet and sprinted to the wall comm.  “Mr. Roberts, report!” her soft, sensitive lilt tempered down to steely, professional demand.

 

Mara rushed past with a gurney and code kit.  “What level, Chris?” she asked, tossing Christine a tricorder with one hand while grabbing a wound kit from a passing orderly with the other.

 

Christine had her hand on the comm switch when Uhura spun around with a terse report.  “The Captain made the initial call.  Mr. Spock gave the final order to beam up.  No details.”  Her voice softened as she laid a gentle hand on Christine’s forearm.  “I’ll be on the Bridge.  Keep me updated?” she asked quietly.

 

“Of course,” Christine assured, placing her free hand on Uhura’s, squeezing lightly.  Uhura rushed off for the Bridge as Christine shouted for Mara to grab the Capellan kit she and McCoy had created.  “The Captain and Mr. Spock made the calls,” she offered by way of explanation.

 

“He _would_ convince them to let him treat whichever kid lost,” Mara scoffed as she parked the loaded gurney by the main doors.  She glanced toward the triage room where one of the orderlies was preparing a biobed.  “Zan, grab the Capellan kit, will you?  Top of the crash cart, in treatment,” she directed.  At Zan’s acknowledgement, she turned back to Christine, who was calling Scotty.

 

“Transporter room, Scott here,” came the familiar brogue.

 

Christine immediately noted the tension in Scotty’s voice.  “Sickbay acknowledging call for medical team to transporter room,” she let protocol drive her responses for the moment.  “What level?”

 

She could _hear_ the tension increase in Scotty’s pause.  “I cannae tell for sure lass.  No obvious external injuries….he’s unconscious, but still with us.  Maybe a ‘three?’” he hazarded a guess.

 

Christine frowned.  Scotty was usually pretty good with trauma grading – he had been one of the first to attend McCoy’s ship-wide course on triage and trauma leveling; a course McCoy had created so that landing parties and transporter room staff could give more accurate accounts to the medical staff being called in, allowing the proper equipment and medications to reach the injured parties faster.  Sure, the distinction between a ‘three’ and a ‘four’ could be tough – both were indicative of a stable patient – but Scotty, the man who had made a reputation out of calmly bending the laws of physics during crisis situations, sounded….not quite panicked, but….. _nervous_.

 

“We’re on our way, Scotty,” Christine assured the engineer, motioning Mara and Zan toward the doors.  “Can you put Dr. McCoy on with us as we go?” she asked.  If McCoy could relay his initial assessment and treatment while they were en route, they would be better prepared to assist when they got there.

 

There was that pause again.  “I’m afraid not….he’s….”

 

Scotty cut off as Kirk’s voice suddenly rose in the background.  “Don’t….come on Bones, breathe dammit!”

 

Christine gasped.  They had all just assumed McCoy was busy.  Fine…..but busy.  She was already shouting for Mara when Scotty shakily confirmed what they already knew -   “ _Now_ he’s a ‘one.’” 

 

_There_ was the panic.     

 

Level one.

 

Critical.

 

_McCoy._

“Mara, grab a mini-vent and a BVM and catch up to us,” Christine sprinted for the laden gurney.

 

“What the _hell_ is going on?” Mara ran for the supplies.  “Is McCoy…?”

 

“….our patient now in respiratory arrest?  Yeah,” Christine confirmed as she began pushing the gurney out the doors.

 

“Shit.  I’m right behind you – I’ll have M’Benga meet us back here,” Mara shouted at Christine’s back.

 

With a quick wave of acknowledgement over one shoulder, Christine was gone.  Racing alongside the gurney, stabilizing Zan’s turns with one hand, she flipped open her communicator with the other.  “Scotty, put me through to the Captain,” she ordered.

 

“He responded after the second sternal rub,” Kirk launched into a breathless report, “but the breaths are getting shallower and further apart.”

 

“How long since the last breath?” Christine asked.

 

Kirk’s pause was quickly filled by Spock’s efficient, “Ten point three seconds.”

 

“Dammit,” Christine thought to herself.  “Even if he breathes now, we’re looking at maybe six per minute….”  She brought herself back out of her head.  “Let me listen,” she told Kirk.  She had to wait another twenty seconds before hearing the ominous gasp.  “Captain, he’s agonal – you need to start artificial respiration _now_.”  She glanced up at her surroundings.  “We’ve just hit the transporter deck,” she reported.

 

“Bones…” she heard Kirk moan desperately before Spock’s voice returned with, “Are three second intervals sufficient, Nurse?”

 

Christine’s eyes widened.  “Keep him at every five until we get there please, Mr. Spock,” she requested.

 

There was the barest hint of a pause before Spock replied.  “Of course.  I shall assist the Captain in maintaining that rate.”

 

Christine softened.  “Thank you, Mr. Spock.”  She sighed heavily.  Vulcans tended to have a higher respiratory rate than humans.  While twenty breaths per minute, one every three seconds, would not have been completely out of range for McCoy, sickbay tended to keep their human patients at twelve breaths per minute, or one every five seconds.  Christine _knew_ that Spock knew that fact.  She also knew that that barely discernable pause was a deafening self-chastisement, recognizable only to those, like her, who knew the Vulcan well.  His judgment had been clouded by a worry he’d be hard-pressed to admit…..and that fact alone told Christine more about McCoy’s condition than any ‘level one’ label ever could.

 

Mara sprinted to her side, tossing the BVM on the gurney and slinging the vent strap higher on her shoulder.  “M’Benga’s ready and waiting for your report,” she said as they rounded the corner, the transporter room coming into sight.  “What’ve you got?” she nodded at the open communicator in Christine’s hand.

 

“Responded to sternal rub times two, then went agonal.  Captain’s starting artificial respiration now, Spock is counting him through,” Christine summarized.

 

“Shit,” Mara ground out.  “What the hell happened…?”  She straightened as they reached the transporter room doors, all angry speculation gone as focused training took over.

 

The doors opened.

 

“Mr. Spock, report,” Christine’s clipped, professional tone led the way into the room.

 

“The Captain is providing effective breaths.  Airway obstruction appears unlikely, however the Doctor has not yet regained the ability to self-regulate,” Spock nodded for Kirk to give another breath.

 

Christine grabbed the BVM from the gurney, ran to the platform, and dropped to her knees at Kirk’s side.  “I’ll take over, Captain,” she said, eyes softening the brusqueness of the statement.  Kirk moved aside as Christine placed the mask over McCoy’s face, adjusted her fingers for a solid seal, tilted his head back, and began squeezing the bag.  Mara began a vitals scan with one hand while setting the mini-vent controls with the other.  “What happened, Captain?” Christine asked, meeting shocked hazel briefly before returning her attention to McCoy’s chest.

 

“He froze.  They grabbed his wrist and he just….. _froze_ ,” Kirk’s voice was rough with emotion.

 

Christine looked to Spock.

 

“The Captain’s account is accurate,” Spock supported, dark eyes shifting careful focus between Kirk and McCoy.  “A Capellan warrior….” He paused, searching for the right word, “…disagreed with Dr. McCoy.  He took the Doctor by the wrist and backed him against a cliff wall.  The Doctor collapsed,” he said succinctly.

 

Mara was relating the initial scan results to M’Benga.  “Heart rate 45, resps 12 per Chris’s bagging, O2 sat 97% from the mask, BP 100/70.  Equal, bilateral chest expansion with delivered breaths, no obvious external injuries.  Initial internal scan negative for fractures, hemorrhage, or organ dysfunction.  Initial hematology and chemistry unremarkable, poison database shows no matches.  You want Chris to switch to the vent?  AC 12?  100%?  You want any PEEP?” Mara nodded between each question in response to M’Benga’s soft replies.  With a final nod, she passed the vent mask to Christine.  “AC 12, 100% O2, no PEEP,” she relayed as Christine swapped the BVM for the vent mask. 

 

Christine turned back to Spock.  “He collapsed when he reached the wall?  Did he hit his head?” she attempted to gather more of a history.

 

Mara began a cranial scan on that possibility.

 

Kirk shook himself out of his shock, the steady, focused leader returning to his voice.  “No, his head never hit the wall – just his back.  He was stable after he collapsed.  Spock’s scan showed normal vital signs and no injury – he only stopped breathing a few seconds after we materialized back here on the Enterprise.”

 

“Cranial scan clear – negative for fracture, contusion, concussion, or hemorrhage,” Mara reported to M’Benga.  She nodded briskly at the reply and confirmed, “we’re on our way.”  She motioned to Zan for the gurney.  “Okay, let’s move him.”

 

Zan moved the gurney to the foot of the pad and locked the wheels before heading to McCoy’s side to help the nurses lift him.  He stopped in mid-step as Spock bent down, lifted the physician in one smooth, effortless motion, and laid him gently on the waiting gurney.  Kirk took up a flanking position on the other side of the gurney from Spock, both of the officers close enough to be near McCoy, but far enough away to allow the medical staff to work.  Christine remained at McCoy’s head, stabilizing and monitoring the vent.  Mara grabbed the gurney along with Zan, freeing one hand to hold the tricorder for a continuous vitals scan.

 

“Ready?” Christine asked her staff.

 

“Go,” Mara confirmed, beginning to push for the doors.

 

The decks cleared rapidly as the team rushed through, whispered prayers, well-wishes, and offers of assistance trailing behind them.  M’Benga met his staff at the sickbay doors.  “Any change?” he asked, already beginning his scan as the gurney cleared the doors.

 

“None since our last report,” Mara replied.

 

Spock moved around the gurney to Kirk’s side as a soft beeping joined the familiar sounds of medical equipment.  “Captain,” he said with heartbreaking gentleness, looking down at Kirk’s beeping communicator, “I believe Eleen is requesting an update on the situation.”

 

Kirk stepped back reluctantly.

 

“Jim…” Spock laid a solid hand on Kirk’s arm.

 

“Shit!  Heart rate just dropped to thirty-five!” Mara shouted.

 

“Prepare one cc of atropine,” M’Benga responded, stopping the gurney to get a more accurate EKG reading.

 

Kirk moved a step forward again, only for Spock to gently pull him back.  “Jim, there is little we can do to assist the Doctor,” he said softly.

 

“Thirty!”  Mara’s voice rose again.

 

Christine grabbed the atropine from Zan and administered the medication at M’Benga’s nod.

 

“Let’s continue please,” M’Benga motioned toward the triage room.  “Mara, I will continue monitoring – please prepare for a full cardiopulmonary and foreign material scan and have the cardio stimulator and crash cart at the bedside.”

 

“Got it,” Mara tossed M’Benga the tricorder and sprinted for the triage room.

 

M’Benga frowned at the reading.  “He’s dropping again – quickly please!” he pushed toward triage.

 

Christine propelled the gurney forward, freeing one hand to check a carotid pulse.  “Twenty-five!” she shouted, leaning her head forward, closer to the room.  “Mara, get another dose of atropine…..” 

 

Christine paused, glancing over her shoulder at the sudden, desperately pleading “Bones” that escaped from Kirk’s lips, and the quiet, undistinguishable response from Spock.  How many times had she rushed Kirk and Spock into triage like this?  Seven years later, those two beaming up injured or dying had become almost routine.  But McCoy…..he never materialized as anything less than fine – pleased with a mission gone well, raging at uncontrollable death, shouting increasingly Southern-tinged orders as he fought to keep a crewmember alive……but _never_ like this.  Never critical.  Never in immediate, obvious need.  The stubborn idiot always managed to hide any physical or emotional injury both while on the mission and in the immediate post-mission period, only becoming symptomatic much later once settled back on the Enterprise, thus requiring Christine to hold off yelling at him until she could call Kirk and Spock, as promised, to McCoy’s side.

 

_That_ was his routine. 

 

_Their_ routine. 

 

As her thoughts raced, she looked back at Kirk and Spock again as she crossed the threshold into triage.  Kirk, all tense, coiled anguish, torn between the emotional need to be at McCoy’s side and the duty in the chirping communicator in his hand…..and Spock, a solid, steady presence, left shoulder lightly touching Kirk’s right as he stood silently behind his friend in stalwart support, dark eyes churning with an all too human concern…..and she realized she didn’t have to call them.  They were already there.  And as much as she didn’t want McCoy to continue doing the stupid things that kept this particular ‘calling and watching’ routine going, Christine found herself refusing the alternative – _not_ calling Kirk and Spock again because there _was_ no McCoy to neglect his own health as readily as he maintained and fought for it in his patients.

 

So the fifth time, she didn’t call them – they were _already_ watching over McCoy.

 

And as the physician’s heart rate dropped again, she just hoped that this time….

 

……it wouldn’t be the last.

 

***

 

Two hours later, Christine returned to sickbay’s main room to find Kirk pacing the length of two biobeds while Spock sat silent guard in a nearby visitor’s chair, chin resting on steepled fingers, dark eyes tracking each of his Captain’s steps with mathematical precision.

 

Kirk came to a surprisingly graceful halt, spinning evenly and seeking out Christine’s eyes, searching for the answer he needed so desperately that even the time it would take to voice the question and response would be too long.  Spock stood in one swift, fluid motion, moving to Kirk’s right shoulder.

 

“He’s still with us,” Christine began, knowing that Kirk needed to know that fact before anything else.

 

Kirk’s relieved exhalation caught in his throat as he noted Christine’s weary half-smile, which spoke of both the fight completed and the road to come.  “But?” he prompted, realizing there was more.

 

Christine sighed.  “Come with me.  You can both sit with him while Dr. M’Benga and I talk.”

 

Spock’s eyes widened at the uncharacteristic hopelessness that briefly flashed across Christine’s face.  Kirk’s stiffened posture indicated an identical recognition and reaction.

 

A moment later, Kirk and Spock entered the one of the private rooms at the back of sickbay.  Kirk’s shoulders slumped.  “He’s still not breathing on his own?” he asked dejectedly, staring at the ventilator mask.

 

“He is, Captain,” Christine clarified.  “When he _did_ start breathing on his own again, the breaths were a little too shallow to keep his oxygen level up.  The ventilator is providing oxygen and a little positive pressure to help keep his lungs open.  He’s doing all the _real_ work.”

 

Kirk nodded, sinking into a chair at McCoy’s left.  Spock followed, but remained standing.  “Go ahead, Christine,” Kirk said quietly, signaling Christine to continue her report.

 

“Dr. McCoy is breathing on his own at a normal rate between twelve and sixteen breaths per minute.  His oxygen saturation is holding well with supplementary oxygen.  His blood pressure has remained within normal limits and his heart rate, while still a little low, is supporting his physiological needs.  He’s stable,” Christine concluded.

 

“He’s stable, but you’re still worried,” Kirk observed.  “Why?”

 

Christine sighed heavily and looked to M’Benga.  “Because we do not yet have an explanation for Leonard’s condition,” M’Benga said.

 

Spock raised an eyebrow.  Kirk nearly jumped out of his chair.  “Are you saying nothing’s wrong with him?” Kirk’s voice wavered, caught between deadly quiet and outraged shouting. 

 

“Of _course_ not, Captain,” Christine said firmly.  “It’s obvious something is wrong,” she motioned purposefully at McCoy’s ventilator-obscured face and continued unconsciousness.  “Dr. M’Benga is simply saying that we don’t know what caused this yet.”

 

Kirk sat back down.

 

“Leonard’s system is showing a similar response to the self-induced hypnosis Vulcans use for healing,” M’Benga pointed out the low readings.

 

“Indeed,” Spock mused softly.

 

“However,” M’Benga continued, frowning slightly as the heart monitor briefly dipped lower, “such as response in humans is generally not indicative of concentrated healing activity.  It is more commonly attributed to an attempt to escape, to protect the mind from a perceived threat.”

 

Kirk’s brow furrowed.  “So you’re saying the reason Bones collapsed and nearly died is all in his head?” he tried to understand.

 

“That is not to say that it is any less serious a matter than a physiological injury,” M’Benga reinforced.  “The human body is capable of much strength, but the mind _does_ have its limits.”

 

“So, what do we do?  If Bones can’t tell us what was so bad that he basically shut down, how do we pull him out of this?” Kirk asked, desperate eyes shifting from McCoy’s still form to Christine and M’Benga.

 

Christine glanced at M’Benga, read his barely perceptible nod, and took over.  “You both said that Dr. McCoy collapsed after one of the Capellans grabbed his wrist and pushed him back against a cliff wall.  Something surrounding that event must have triggered this response.  We need you to tell us everything you can remember about what happened around that moment.”

 

Kirk scrubbed his hands across his face wearily.  “Leonard James Akaar had just won the battle.  He had Maab’s son, Meel, on the ground, sword against his throat….” Kirk began, eyes drifting in focused recollection.

 

***

 

_“Meel, you are defeated.  I am now Leonard James Akaar, High Teer of the Ten Tribes of Capella,” Akaar proclaimed._

_“And I am your man,” Meel replied, releasing the grasp on his injured right arm, allowing the blood to flow freely into the sand.  “It is my privilege to die for you, Teer.”  He met Akaar’s eyes soundly._

_Akaar raised his sword.  Kirk and McCoy held their breaths.  The sword plunged into the bloody earth at Meel’s side.  A cry rose from the crowd._

_“As Maab, father of Meel, gave Eleen, mother of Leonard James Akaar, back her life, so do I, High Teer Akaar, give Meel back his,” Akaar stated loudly for the crowd._

_“You dare dishonor our laws?” A Capellan warrior stepped forward from the spectators.  “You are the victor.  He must die,” he pointed roughly at Meel._

_“You dare challenge your Teer?” Akaar countered icily, pulling himself up to his full height.  “Do you say you will fight me, Kaam?”_

_Kaam glared at Akaar, but took a half-step back.  “There are those of us who will not tolerate such disregard for our traditions…..for such actions more suited to Earthmen than Capellans.”_

_Akaar threw back his headdress, claiming the Teer’s sole right of wearing his hair free.  He shook his head at Kaam’s statement.  “I do not hear your words, Kaam, and I will not hear them until you either accept my rule or choose to fight.  As Teer, Meel’s life belongs to me – it is my right to do with it as I please.  You see my action as soft….Earthlike.  You would accuse me of acting in the manner of those Earthmen’s names I carry.  What you do not see is that to be Teer, one must see far.  I see that I may have use for Meel’s life beyond this moment and so I give him his life today so that I may call upon it again tomorrow.  It is my right.”_

_Eleen stepped forward, a kligat in her hands.  She presented it to Akaar with the traditional words, “Capellan warrior, High Teer, take this blade and carry it well.  Let only death separate you from its touch.”  Akaar took the traditional weapon he had now earned the right to carry, and hooked it at his hip.  Eleen turned back to Kaam, eyes burning.  “The decision has been made.  All is in order.  He is Teer,” she stepped forward into Kaam’s space, challenging him to continue.  Kaam melted back into the crowd._

_McCoy let out a breath as Eleen and Akaar returned to the shaded overhang where he, Kirk, and Spock were observing._

_“Ma’Koi, our child is now Teer,” Eleen pulled herself up with a proud smile._

_McCoy accompanied Eleen to Akaar’s throne.  As one, they performed the traditional welcoming gesture – clenched fist to chest, followed by outstretched arm and open hand.  “Our lives are yours Teer Leonard James Akaar,” McCoy and Eleen said in unison.  “Do with them what you will.”_

_Akaar returned the gesture.  He watched McCoy’s gaze stray to the wounded Meel as he began to walk away.  “Ma’Koi,” Akaar called the physician back.  “Why do you look at Meel that way?” he gestured to the anguished compassion in McCoy’s eyes._

_“His tradition is different, Teer,” Eleen explained, the quotations almost audible as she repeated McCoy’s own words from five years ago, “It is to ‘treat the sick and injured.’”_

_Akaar frowned.  “You wish to treat Meel?  To allow the weaker to regain a place amidst the stronger?  I do not understand.”_

_“Teer, Meel’s wound is not life-threatening – he’ll survive to fight for you again, but left untreated, that wound will affect his ability to use a sword or kligat, and then he’ll be of no use to you.  In your wisdom, you granted Meel his life.  Allow me to treat that arm and he’ll be strong when you call upon that life again in the future,” McCoy said, weighing his words carefully._

_Akaar nodded thoughtfully.  “It is true – to be Teer is to see in new ways.  Very well.  Eleen shall accompany you,” he waved them off toward Meel._

_McCoy caught Kirk and Spock’s eyes quickly as he followed Eleen to Meel’s side.  Eleen spoke first.  “Ma’Koi has the permission of the Teer to perform his tradition.  He will treat your arm.”_

_Meel pushed himself into a sitting position.  “I do not understand.  I have lost.  I am the weaker and, if it does not kill me, I must carry this wound until I do find death.”_

_McCoy sighed.  “You’re not findin’ death today,” he drawled, “and if you let me see that arm, you may have a chance at not findin’ death quite so fast tomorrow.”_

_Meel looked to Eleen.  “I….” he began._

_“Your Teer granted you your life,” Eleen reminded Meel.  “It is your duty to keep that life strong for his use when it is called upon.  Ma’Koi’s hands are strange and soft, but they are also strong, and know much.  He will give you back your strength.”_

_Meel looked warily at McCoy before nodding at Eleen’s words.  “What must I do?” he asked._

_McCoy knelt down and opened his medkit.  “I need to touch your arm,” he said, waiting for permission._

_Meel’s eyes widened.  “You require touch in your tradition?” he asked incredulously._

_McCoy held back an equally incredulous laugh.  “Son, I’m a doctor – I can’t treat a patient without touchin’ them!”_

_Meel gestured toward the Starfleet mining operation in the distance.  “You do not have machines for this too?” he asked, trying to understand how Starfleet could remove Capella’s rocks without using their hands, yet McCoy couldn’t treat his wound without them._

_It was McCoy’s eyes that widened next.  “Would you trust a machine to do this?” he scoffed, selecting a hypo from the kit and laying it on top of the tricorder.  “May I?” he nodded toward Meel’s arm._

_Meel nodded and watched, fascinated, as McCoy examined the jagged wound, probed the edges, and scanned the area.  “I’m going to give you an injection to help speed up the healing,” he explained.  “I’m going to press this,” he held up the hypo, “against your skin.  You may feel a brief sting.”_

_Meel looked almost offended.  “I am Capellan.”_

_McCoy rolled his eyes.  “Right,” he acknowledged.  “Here we go.”  He injected the medication, applied the dermal regenerator, answered Meel’s sudden litany of questions, and finally stepped back, nodding at the now unmarred skin.  “Well, that’s it,” McCoy closed his kit and leaned back on his heels with a pleased smile._

_Meel stood rapidly.  Still staring at the healed skin, he quickly performed the traditional gesture.  “I thank you for your gift, Ma’Koi,” he stated formally, unable to pull his eyes from the arm.  “I shall present myself to the Teer now; that he may know my arm is strong for him once more.”_

_McCoy chuckled softly to himself as Meel strode off to the line at Akaar’s throne.  Eleen stepped back, musing quietly on McCoy’s ‘strange hands.’  McCoy gathered his kit and moved to place it back at his hip.  A strong hand suddenly reached out and grabbed his left wrist in mid-motion, forcing the kit to drop from numb fingers._

_“You taint Capella with your presence, Ma’Koi,” Kaam practically spat McCoy’s name as he pulled the physician to his feet.  He squeezed McCoy’s wrist tighter, holding the captured limb up and between them.  McCoy’s eyes widened and he froze, rooted to the spot._

_“Eleen, Akaar, even Maab……you have weakened our strength.  Maab had the knowledge to be a great Teer, but he sacrificed himself needlessly for the mother of this… child,” Kaam growled, jerking his head toward Akaar’s throne.  “And now, he and Eleen call outsiders to our ceremonies and act softly as Earthmen do in the face of death….” Kaam began backing McCoy away from the fighting arena, toward the cliff face, eyes locked with McCoy’s wide, unseeing blue, using the physician’s wrist to maneuver the silent, compliant man away from the crowd.  McCoy’s back hit the rock wall.  He swallowed reflexively, eyes still unblinking._

_Eleen’s voice suddenly rose above the open space.  “Kaam, you will not touch our guest!”_

_Kirk and Spock were sprinting across the sand, phasers dropped uselessly to their sides, afraid the injure McCoy in the blast._

_Kaam leaned forward into McCoy’s face.  He raised a hand._

_McCoy dropped._

_A kligat whistled through the air, embedding itself in Kaam’s back.  The Capellan hit the ground, dead._

_Keel jogged alongside Eleen, reaching McCoy seconds after Kirk and Spock did.  He pulled his weapon from Kaam’s back and placed it back at his side.  “I was proud to kill the Klingon with Maab’s sacrifice.  This child should not have acted against the guests of those whose lives Maab granted,” he said._

_Eleen looked down at McCoy.  “Can you not treat him?” she asked Kirk and Spock._

_“I am afraid he is the doctor, not us,” Spock replied, taking up the medical tricorder and performing a basic scan._

_“Bones?  Bones, answer me,” Kirk patted the physician’s cheek lightly.  He looked up at Spock.  “Pulse and respirations are strong.  I don’t see any injury…..you got anything?” he nodded to the tricorder._

_“Negative Captain,” Spock said.  “All physiological systems report normal.”_

_“Except that he won’t wake up,” Kirk pointed out._

_“Agreed, Captain.”_

_Kirk glared at Kaam’s body as he flipped open his communicator.  “Kirk to Enterprise.  Prepare to beam up landing party.  Have a medical team meet us in the transporter room.  Kirk out.”  He looked up at Eleen.  “Is there some kind of poison Kaam could have delivered by touching McCoy?” he grasped for answers._

_Eleen shook her head.  “We do not have such things,” she said.  “What has happened to Ma’Koi?”_

_“We don’t know yet,” Kirk murmured._

_“You are returning to your vessel?” Eleen asked, glancing up toward the sky._

_“Yes.  We have others who can treat him there,” Kirk explained._

_“How will we know when Ma’Koi is treated?” Eleen demanded._

_Kirk chewed the inside of his cheek before taking McCoy’s communicator and handing it to Eleen.  “We can speak to you through this,” he said, showing her how the machine worked, “and you can call us, like this,” he demonstrated the settings._

_“Captain,” Spock directed Kirk’s attention back to McCoy.  “The Doctor’s last breath was significantly shallower than his previous respirations.”_

_Kirk dropped back to McCoy’s side, placing a hand on his friend’s chest.  Spock called up to the Enterprise.  “Now, Mr. Scott,” he ordered._

_Kirk made the traditional gesture to Eleen, along with a rushed promise to update her on McCoy’s condition._

_The transporter beam took them._

_***_

 

Kirk looked back up, returning to the present.  “And then we were in the transporter room,” he finished.  “Does any of that mean anything to you?” he asked Christine and M’Benga.

 

Christine and M’Benga shared a glance before Christine responded thoughtfully, “It all started when Kaam grabbed Dr. McCoy’s wrist.  You said he froze…..he didn’t move, didn’t fight Kaam pushing him…..and when he was backed into the wall and Kaam raised a hand, he collapsed.  Somewhere, something like that must have happened to him before……and it was traumatizing enough that a similar action brought the memories back strongly enough for him to shut down.”  She watched McCoy’s face for a few moments silently, mind whirling through seven years of conversation and interaction with the physician, searching for anything that may have been relevant.  “I can’t think of anything he’s mentioned in sickbay,” she finally sighed.  “Captain?  Mr. Spock?” she asked.

 

Kirk and Spock turned to one another, locking eyes as if, even in their silence, their minds were working in tandem.  Kirk was the first to speak.  “I can’t think of anything,” he blew out a frustrated breath.

 

“Nor can I,” Spock reported.  He hesitated briefly before continuing, “however, I may be able to offer an alternative.”

 

M’Benga straightened.  “Mr. Spock, I do not believe a mind meld would be the wisest course of action at this time,” he insisted.  “We do not know what has caused this reaction in Leonard, and another presence in his traumatized mind may bring him past the point where we can retrieve him.”

 

“I agree Doctor,” Spock responded, inclining his head slightly to the left.  “However, our greatest difficulty at this time is, as you have just stated, that we _do not know_ what has caused Dr. McCoy’s current condition.  I do not suggest a full meld – merely a surface link.  It will allow for safe, rapid separation if required, and, if the triggering event is not buried with the rest of his mind, it may allow me to observe images or feelings that can aid in your diagnosis, Doctor.”  Spock met M’Benga’s eyes.  “It is the only logical alternative left to us.”

 

M’Benga’s eyes flew to the monitor at Christine’s sudden movement, narrowing at the sudden drop in McCoy’s heart rate.  Christine verified the scan, placed a hypo of atropine next to the ventilator, and locked concerned, but resigned, gazes with M’Benga. 

 

“Very well, Mr. Spock,” M’Benga finally agreed.  He moved to Christine’s side as she intensified her focus on McCoy’s readings.

 

Kirk moved aside so Spock could take his place.  “Careful Spock,” he murmured, shifting worried glances between his two friends.

 

“Of course, Captain,” Spock acknowledged.  He sat down, mapped out the contact points on McCoy’s face, and pressed down.  The room disappeared.

 

***

 

 

“Doctor.”  Spock’s voice resonated through the darkness. 

 

Silence.

 

“Doctor McCoy.”  The darkness was unsettling.  Spock had melded with McCoy before, and he _never_ had to search for the physician’s essence.  McCoy’s mind was usually, quite literally, illuminating.  McCoy’s sheer passion for life was a supernova, blinding light and searing heat, as native to each of his cells as the finely honed organelles and just as vital.  The darkness from which supernovas were born rippled just under the surface, the gentle rush of waves on a primordial lake, equal parts sorrow, comfort and prescription.  It was McCoy’s humanity that always kept Spock from reeling – that gently powerful, earthy humanity tempered the heat of the supernova, found understanding and acceptance of the darkness, and left McCoy’s mind a brightly lit place of passion, brilliance, attentiveness and, even in the midst of the human’s staggering capacity for illogic…..peace.

 

As the seconds passed, Spock felt the subtle thrill of fear in his chest.  He knew that only twenty point four seconds had passed since he first entered McCoy’s mind, but he also knew _McCoy_.  The darkness was wrong and as much as McCoy grumbled about “damn Vulcans messin’ around in each other’s heads”, the physician respected the practice, saw its therapeutic values, and most importantly, always responded to Spock during a meld.  Even in a surface link such as this, he should be able to feel McCoy’s essence.  For it to be buried so deeply….. 

 

Spock acknowledged the fear for what it was – a strong emotion and a valid one, but not conducive to the task at hand.  He recognized its existence with Amanda’s humanity and dismissed it with Sarek’s logic.  It was illogical to deny the feeling, for it did _exist_ , but it was equally illogical to let such a thing reduce his efficiency.  He could not afford distractions – he needed to find McCoy…….or, at the very least, _something_ of McCoy.

 

Spock continued searching in a careful balance - pushing against the darkness while respecting the physician’s innate privacy, skimming along the surface.

 

Sixteen point eight seconds later, he felt McCoy go rigid under his fingertips.

 

“Doctor McCoy!” Spock shouted over the sudden flood of panic in McCoy’s mind.  “Doctor, it is Spock,” he stated firmly, hoping the familiar name would bring the physician past the surge of emotion.

 

McCoy fought harder.

 

Spock staggered under the sudden flood of images that burst through the emotion.  He frowned at a split-second image of a bearded Vulcan.  Bringing all his focus onto that moment, Spock realized that he was looking at a remarkably similar version of himself – one with facial hair, a cold stare…… and the ability to strike fear into Leonard McCoy’s heart.   

 

Spock’s mind went back five years to Kirk, Scotty, Uhura, and McCoy’s experience in the mirror universe.  He remembered McCoy, as usual, insulting him on the Bridge at the end of it all. _“Jim, I think I liked him better with a beard.  It gave him character.”_

Something about his parallel universe counterpart……

 

Spock grabbed the image of the mirror Spock as it flew by again on a dangerous current of fear.  Tucking the memory aside, Spock focused all his attention on projecting an image of his true self to McCoy’s fracturing mind.  Perhaps if he could calm the physician down, he could discover more about the other Spock’s role in all this.  “Doctor McCoy, it is Spock,” Spock repeated, replacing the fear-tinged image of his mirror universe counterpart with a neutral image of himself on the Bridge at his station.  “I am not here to harm you.”

 

A flash of uncertainty overrode the fear, before McCoy succumbed to the terror again.  Latching onto that moment, Spock gently began adding images of time he and McCoy had spent together – triumphant success in the medical labs as they found a cure for a virulent new strain of Rigellian fever; hour-long philosophical debates on the Bridge subsequently ended by Uhura’s singing laughter telling them to take their arguments elsewhere; quiet evenings of chess and conversation with Jim. 

 

“Do not be alarmed, Doctor,” Spock reinforced the positive images.  “Our minds are one….”

 

Spock hadn’t thought it possible for McCoy’s terror to intensify.  He was in error.

 

Somewhere, machines were screaming.

 

***

 

Spock was still breathing hard, a full minute later, when awareness returned.  He recalled strong hands grasping his shoulders……being torn from McCoy’s mind………a sound….

 

“Spock, can you hear me?  Spock, answer me!” Kirk’s worried face swam into view.

 

Spock blinked rapidly, clearing his vision, as the shrill of alarms assaulted his ears.  “Captain, what happened?” he bolted upright.

 

Kirk shot the same worried look at McCoy’s bed where Christine and M’Benga were deep in cardiopulmonary emergency protocol.  Christine switched the ventilator to take over McCoy’s breathing while M’Benga administered the nearby atropine and called for another medication.  Kirk looked back to Spock.  “Bones went stiff, stopped breathing, and his heart rate dropped to twenty,” he said.  “M’Benga had to pull you out.”

 

“Is Dr. McCoy…?” Spock began.

 

“Resps stable on AC of 12, heart rate up to fifty,” Christine reported.

 

M’Benga sighed.  “Well done.  Maintain current settings.”  He turned to Spock.  “Are you all right, Mr. Spock?”

 

“I am unharmed, Doctor,” Spock replied.  He suddenly spun to face Kirk as his mind cleared, recalling McCoy’s memories.  “Captain, five years ago, you, Dr. McCoy, Mr. Scott, and Lt. Uhura, were transported into a parallel universe during a magnetic storm above the Halkan planet, where you met another version of myself.  One with a beard,” he prompted.

 

Kirk nodded thoughtfully.  “Yes, I remember.  What about it?” he leaned forward in anticipation.

 

“There was little of Dr. McCoy that was not deeply shielded,” Spock said, eyes flashing with brief distress at the memory, “but the image of a bearded version of myself was quite prominent…..as was Dr. McCoy’s fear.”

 

Kirk and Christine froze.

 

“My attempts to calm the Doctor were unsuccessful,” a hint of frustrated concern tinged Spock’s words.  “He appeared unable to distinguish the difference between _my_ presence and that of my parallel universe counterpart.”  Spock paused and shifted slightly in his seat.  Christine went on high alert – for a human, that barely noticeable shift was nothing; for Spock, it was as near to outright fidgeting as he could get.  “Captain……did my counterpart…….”

 

Christine swallowed hard at Spock’s hesitation.

 

“….did something occur between my counterpart and Dr. McCoy?  Something that was perhaps omitted from your report?” Spock finally asked.

 

Christine’s eyes widened.  “You think the other Mr. Spock hurt Dr. McCoy?” she felt her stomach churn with protective anger.  “And that the Capellan’s actions today reminded him so strongly of that event that this occurred?”

 

“I believe it is a logical possibility based on the little data we have,” Spock replied.

 

Christine frowned as McCoy’s heart rate dropped momentarily before returning to its previous state.  Her eyes drifted to the dark bruising already forming on McCoy’s left wrist.  “He didn’t report any injury in the post-mission assessment,” she recalled the Halkan mission thoughtfully before adding with a scoff, “not that he _would_ of course.”

 

Kirk chuckled weakly, resigned understanding rather than humor.

 

“But he didn’t start showing symptoms of any hidden injury later on either,” Christine continued.  She bit her lip in concentration, trying to recall anything she might have missed.

 

“Captain, was my counterpart ever alone with Dr. McCoy?” Spock asked.

 

Kirk nodded slowly.  “For a few minutes, yes.  He stayed behind in sickbay to finish treating the other Spock’s head injury.”  He remembered McCoy’s harsh plea for more time.  “He said he wouldn’t be more than five minutes, and he wasn’t.  The other Mr. Spock brought him back to the transporter room in just under that time.”

 

Christine’s ears perked at Kirk’s words – “ _brought_ him back.” 

 

Spock apparently picked up on the word choice as well.  “You said my counterpart ‘brought’ Dr. McCoy to the transporter room.  He did not ‘accompany’ him.  Did Dr. McCoy appear to be in any…..distress at that time?” Spock’s voice was low.

 

Kirk’s brow furrowed in thought.  “He was….quiet,” he recalled, “but otherwise seemed unharmed.”  His eyes narrowed.  “Spock, what are you thinking?”

 

A sudden memory of Scotty stopping by sickbay, “just checkin’ in on McCoy”, worry creasing every line of his face an hour after the landing party returned that day…… Cold fear gripped Christine’s gut as she spun for the comm, calling Scotty and Uhura to sickbay. 

 

She _knew_ what Spock was thinking.

 

“Captain, I must know…..” Spock seemed unable to continue.

 

“Scotty and Uhura are on their way,” Christine said hurriedly, meeting Spock’s eyes with a shared concern.

 

Spock nodded gratefully at Christine’s understanding and foresight.  A few moments later, with Kirk nervously watching from McCoy’s side, Spock repeated his findings and questions to Scotty and Uhura.  “When Dr. McCoy returned to the transporter room with my counterpart, did he appear to be in any distress?” he asked the officers.

 

“Yes sir, he was _nothing_ like himself,” Uhura recalled immediately.  “Mr. Scott had to lead him to the transporter pad and hold him up.  He never said a word,” her voice wavered with remembered concern.

 

“Aye, something happened,” Scotty nodded vigorously.  “I don’t know what it was, but a man doesn’t act like that without havin’ been through a time.  The other Mr. Spock had quite a grip on the good Doctor’s arm bringin’ him back in, but McCoy already had a bruise on his wrist…..an’ there was _nothin’_ on his face.  If I hadnae walked him to the transporter pad and held him there, I don’t think he’d have _ever_ moved.  I could feel him shakin’ the whole time the Captain and the other Mr. Spock were talking,” Scotty said.

 

Christine pulled Scotty to McCoy’s left side.  “A bruise like this?” she asked, lifting McCoy’s wrist.

 

Scotty’s eyes widened.  “Aye, just like that – same place too.”  He whirled on Spock.  “What’s goin’ on, Mr. Spock?” he demanded.

 

Christine could see every piece fall into cold, logical place in Spock’s eyes.  He stood up slowly to test his theory.  “Nurse Chapel, if you please,” he tilted his head to his side.

 

Christine walked over slowly, watching the monitor dip again.  “He did it, didn’t he?” she whispered.  “Dr. McCoy’s heart rate drops when he hears your voice……he’s remembering the other Spock’s…….” she couldn’t even find the word for such profanity.

 

Spock nodded in slow despair.  “Observe, Captain,” he spoke louder, gathering everyone’s attention.  At Christine’s nod, he grasped her left wrist, held it up between them, and slowly pushed her back against the wall.  Christine swallowed reflexively as an irrational surge of panic burst through her calm understanding.  Spock raised his left hand to her face and let his fingers hover just over the familiar contact points.

 

“He forced a mind meld,” Christine said quietly, as M’Benga closed his eyes in shocked disbelief.

 

“That would be the logical conclusion,” Spock’s voice was rough.

 

Kirk suddenly buried his face in his hands.  “I didn’t think….”

 

“Captain?” Christine prompted softly.

 

Kirk looked up, eyes black with despair.  “The other Spock found me in the transporter room.  He wanted to know why I had been acting so strangely.  I told him he was wasting his time and he said that he knew how ‘inflexible and disciplined’ I was once I made up my mind.  He knew I wouldn’t tell him.  But then he said…..” Kirk swallowed hard as the words came back with slow, cold clarity, “ _But Doctor McCoy has a plentitude of human weaknesses – sentimental, soft.  You many not tell me what I want to know, but he will._ ”

 

Spock went ashen with the sudden confirmation.  Christine and Uhura hurriedly lowered the Vulcan into a chair.

 

Kirk looked from McCoy to Spock, unparalleled guilt flooding his anguished eyes.  “And I called him a man of integrity….” He laughed ruefully.  “The bastard as much as _told_ me he was going to force a meld on Bones and I didn’t do a damn thing.  I couldn’t even remember until now.”  His laugh grew increasingly bitter.  “Spock, I….”

 

“Captain, I will never understand the staggering human capacity for guilt – an illogical, and, at this time, quite inefficient, use of resources.”

 

Kirk deflated.  “Of course, Spock.”  He had known the Vulcan long enough to know not to take offense at that response, especially when it was obvious Spock was struggling with his own ‘human capacities.’  “Are you all right?” he asked softly, placing a gentle hand on Spock’s arm.

 

Spock tore his gaze from McCoy and Kirk was taken aback at the intensity of emotion in those suddenly very human eyes.  “I….shall be,” he managed after a long pause.  “Unfortunately, I do not know if the same can be said for Dr. McCoy.”  He glanced at Christine.  “I believe the word you were searching for earlier was ‘violation,’” he said roughly, clearing his voice before turning back to Kirk.  “My counterpart’s statement and the similarities between the Capellan’s actions and my and Nurse Chapel’s demonstration confirm that my parallel universe self did indeed force a mind meld on Dr. McCoy.”

 

The room went silent.

 

“What my counterpart did is an abomination according to my people – a violation of the greatest magnitude.  In Surak’s time, such violations, as rare as they were, were punishable by death.  Those Vulcans who perpetrated such acts were recorded to have subdued their victims in the exact manner in which my counterpart, and similarly the Capellan, did Dr. McCoy.  A form of Vulcan….hypnosis, if you will.  Pressure points on the left wrist slow physiological responses in the Vulcan male – grasping the wrist and using those points to force movement is a sign of power, just as backing a Vulcan into a wall, or somewhere where they cannot maintain their personal space, is a sign of disrespect.  My counterpart, in that universe, would have acted with those facts in mind.”

 

“And the Capellan just happened to act the same way, reminding Bones of the other Spock’s…….” Kirk paused, as if he couldn’t bring himself to say the word.

 

“‘Violation’, Captain,” Spock supplied firmly.

 

“Violation,” Kirk swallowed hard against the word, “and, to protect himself from those memories, he just…..shut down.”

 

“That would appear to be the case, Captain,” M’Benga agreed softly.

 

Spock’s eyes sparked.  “I must admit that I am in great admiration of Dr. McCoy’s mental strength.  Vulcans who have been subjected to forced mind melds often go insane, and many have died under the strain of even a healer’s meld.  I have never heard of a Vulcan, let alone a human, surviving such a violation, especially without treatment, with their sanity intact.  The fact that McCoy was able to hide this event for five years is most impressive.  Such a severe response is indeed most logical in this situation,” he watched McCoy’s face, admiration warring with the despair still tightening his pale face.

 

Kirk sighed softly, emotion-filled eyes resting on McCoy.  He drew in a breath and straightened, command persona pushing through that of anguished friend.  “All right, so now we know what it is,” he summarized.  “How do we bring Bones back?” he posited to the room.

 

“Normally, under these circumstances, I would suggest a deeper meld, where the emotion could be isolated and validated, thus allowing the healing to begin,” Spock began.

 

“But considering how Dr. McCoy’s condition worsens even with your voice _outside_ of a meld,” Christine nodded to the monitors, “we would be more likely to _lose_ him with that method, than _save_ him.”

 

Christine swore she saw Spock actually flinch with that understanding.  “Agreed, Nurse,” he said, voice low.  “I attempted to place positive images of our friendship….”

 

Christine smiled softly at that admission.

 

“….in his mind, but I was not able to remain long enough to ensure Dr. McCoy recognized that it was I, and not the parallel universe Spock, that was present.”

 

Kirk nodded.  “Suggestions, Dr. M’Benga?” he asked the Vulcan specialist.

 

M’Benga tapped his fingers lightly against the mattress.  “I agree that any form of melding would be more detrimental than beneficial to Leonard right now.  If Mr. Spock established brief contact and did attempt to reinforce that Leonard was surrounded by friends, rather than enemies, I would suggest we do the same.”

 

Christine smiled.  “Time and a friendly voice, Doctor?” she clarified.  Her mind drifted several years, back to an unconscious Captain Kirk lying in sickbay after a particularly disastrous mission.  McCoy had spent several hours in surgery, repairing the physical damage, before taking a seat at Kirk’s bedside to work on the psychological.  With each treatment Christine performed that night, her hypo hissed softly through increasingly drawled stories – of McCoy’s farmland upbringing, the laughter and trials of medical school, memories of times with Kirk and Spock that sent McCoy chuckling again just at the thought.  He talked all night.  When an orderly asked what he was doing, McCoy had smiled, a weary, but hopeful, knowing smile, as he responded, “Any doctor that tells you time and a friendly voice aren’t just as important as surgery and chemistry has no right carryin’ that title.  When a patient’s hurtin’ too much to come out, givin’ them a little time and positive conversation’ll do what no hypo _ever_ will.”

 

M’Benga smiled, his mind obviously returning to that same evening.  “Precisely, Christine,” he affirmed.

 

“Just talk to him?” Kirk asked, half-baffled at the simplicity of the treatment and half-thrilled at the ability to be involved.

 

“Exactly, Captain,” Christine said.  “Remind him that he’s on our Enterprise, and that Mr. Spock was telling the truth – that no one here will harm him.  We can support him physiologically with the ventilator and cardiac meds, but he needs to know that it’s safe to come back.”

 

“Do we have a chance, Spock?” Kirk turned to his first officer.

 

“He’s made it work on both of _you_ ,” Christine supplied, nodding at Kirk and Spock before relating McCoy’s words to the orderly that night several years ago.

 

Kirk nodded, satisfied that so long as it was _McCoy’s_ practice, that it would work. 

 

Spock seemed to agree.  “Yes, Captain,” he replied, uncharacteristically refusing to switch to more quantitative language, “there is a chance.”

 

“Then let’s start talkin’!” Scotty proclaimed.

 

Kirk grinned, pulling his chair closer to McCoy’s side.  He gestured for Spock to join him.  “All right Spock, where should we start?” he looked to his friend for a good story.

 

“I believe it would be best if I did not participate at this time, Jim,” Spock’s breath nearly caught on the despair as he tilted his head toward the monitors.

 

Christine’s heart shattered at that almost imperceptible hitch.

 

Kirk scowled as McCoy’s heart rate dropped again in response to Spock’s voice.  “Fine,” he decided, “but as soon as Bones remembers where he is, you’re taking over.  There’s no _way_ I can get through those journal articles you two read.”

 

A flicker of peace lightened Spock’s eyes.  “Agreed Captain,” he nodded; a hint of familiar mischief in his lips at Kirk’s teasing insinuation.

 

“Good,” Kirk said, motioning him to a seat.  At Spock’s questioning eyebrow, Kirk clarified, “He’ll know you’re here even I’m the one doing all the talking.”

 

Spock’s other eyebrow came up in understanding acceptance as he moved from McCoy’s left side where Kirk was, to sit on the physician’s right.

 

Christine pushed back the sudden threat of tears.  With Kirk on the left and Spock on the right, the two men had McCoy in the middle in a soul-crushing image of post-Minara protectiveness.  If anyone could stand better guard against death than a passionately engaged Leonard McCoy, it was these two men, more brothers than friends, when that very guard himself was threatened.

 

As Kirk began to speak, Scotty and Uhura slipped out with a silent promise to return with more ‘friendly voices.’

 

A promise they fulfilled beyond all thought.

 

Several hours after Spock’s eyebrows took near-permanent residence in his hairline at Kirk’s Academy stories, Scotty returned with drinks and old Scottish humor.  Christine found herself staying in the room long past her medication and assessment duties were completed, basking in the sound of deep, uninhibited laughter.

 

For three days, McCoy’s room was filled with voices.

 

Kirk’s rock-climbing adventures as a midshipman.

 

Scotty’s delight in the new engineering improvements he was implementing.

 

Sulu’s frighteningly sentient plants and upcoming horticultural plans.

 

Chekov’s recitation of world history, as invented by Russia.

 

Uhura’s songs and ship’s gossip.

 

…..And, on the second day, at Uhura’s prodding, Spock’s lyre.

 

“If it’s your voice he fears right now, let your fingers speak to him instead,” Uhura had said, strumming the Vulcan lyre softly as she handed it to Spock.

 

Christine maintained a quiet, steady presence in the background, laughing along with the myriad of newly discovered facets of the Bridge crew, adding her own stories here and there, watching McCoy’s healing routine in action.

 

On the second day, she cheered with the crew as McCoy was downgraded to a simple oxygen mask.

 

On the third day, Spock answered Kirk’s beeping communicator so the Captain could continue his story.  Spock gave Eleen a thorough update from the bedside before signing off and resuming his attention on Kirk’s tale. 

 

Christine’s grin threatened to split her face.  “Mr. Spock, look,” she pointed to the monitors.

 

Spock looked from the monitor to Christine.  “I do not understand, Nurse.  Nothing has changed.”

 

“ _Exactly_ ,” Christine somehow managed to grin even wider.  “You were just speaking…. right next to him….. and his heart rate _never changed_.”

 

Anyone who said Vulcans couldn’t smile with their eyes had never seen Spock in that moment. 

 

Kirk let out a breath.  “That’s it, Bones,” he encouraged.  He looked to Spock.  “Well Spock, what’ve you got?” he grinned.

 

Spock raised his eyes to the sky in a long-suffering gesture before turning pleased eyes to McCoy’s face.  “Doctor, I believe you would be interested to note the latest…..”

 

The night passed with a steady stream of scientific jargon and a sleeping Captain, head pillowed lightly against McCoy’s bruised wrist.

 

And on the fourth day, Christine saw one routine come to fruition while rejoicing at the knowledge that another would continue.

 

As Kirk and Spock quietly poured over a new mission assignment at McCoy’s bedside, McCoy woke up.

 

Christine held her breath, hugging the doorway as Kirk leaned forward cautiously.  He sifted through the dulled blue layers until he found the one thing he needed – recognition.  He exhaled heavily, the sound of a man finally able to breathe again.

 

McCoy blinked sluggishly, heart rate rising smoothly as awareness returned.  The clouds shifted and focused blue met hopeful hazel.  Recognition sparked anew.  Kirk grinned.

 

McCoy’s eyes shifted to Kirk’s side, where Spock was slowly lowering the PADD they had been consulting.  McCoy locked eyes with the Vulcan and smiled weakly.  Spock’s eyes closed briefly as relief flooded his features.

 

“Welcome back, Bones,” Kirk smiled, squeezing the physician’s arm.

 

“Indeed, Doctor, your presence has been missed,” Spock’s face was carefully neutral once more, but nothing could keep the undercurrent of joy from his voice.

 

McCoy’s lips twitched again, blue eyes shining before slowly slipping closed again in easy slumber.

 

Kirk and Spock shared a lingering look before settling back and resuming their vigil.

 

This was their routine – calling, guarding, healing.

 

Watching.

 

Christine rested her head against the coolness of the wall as relief flowed through her.  They had done it again.  McCoy was still here.

 

She looked to Kirk and Spock, quietly discussing mission objectives at the bedside.  They simultaneously looked up to ensure McCoy was resting comfortably, that he was still with them.  Christine met their gaze.

 

It was all in their eyes.

 

_Someone_ needs to watch the watcher.

 

And as long as the watcher survived…..

 

….as long as _McCoy_ survived…..

 

……they would _all_ stand that watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Medical/Episode Notes:
> 
> \- In “Friday’s Child”, Maab is the Capellan that leads the coup and kills the Teer, Akaar. He supports the Klingon, Kras, until the end of the episode, when Kras doubts Eleen’s word and Eleen forms a plan to draw Kras’s fire. Maab gives Eleen back her life, saying that his “is now forfeit.” He calls another Capellan named Keel to stand ready, and when Maab dies distracting Kras, Keel kills the Klingon with the Capellan’s traditional weapon, the kligat. Names were verified at the Memory Alpha website.  
> \- In the brief scenes with Akaar in “Friday’s Child”, he is the only Capellan male without the full, habit-like head covering. Using this, I decided that only the Teer could wear his hair free in that manner, and so when Leonard James Akaar claims his title, he both receives the traditional warrior’s weapon that he has earned, and removes his head covering in light of his new role.   
> \- Meel, Maab’s son, is an original character that I created. His back story is that he was proud to be the son of the man who granted Eleen back her life and allowed the true Teer to come to power, and so he volunteered, even though he was two years older than Leonard James, to be his opponent at the coming-of-age ceremony that would prove the victor a Capellan warrior, and would prove Leonard James worthy of being Teer.  
> \- When Eleen tries to get Maab and the other Capellans to fight, she asks “are you warriors or children?” The way she says “children”, it sounds like an insult, so I made it one.  
> \- “BVM” stands for “bag valve mask”, also known as an “ambu-bag.” It is used to deliver breaths to patients who are unable to breathe on their own.  
> \- “AC 12” is a ventilator setting. “AC” stands for “assist control”, where the ventilator delivers a pre-programmed number of breaths per minute. If the patient attempts to initiate a breath on their own, the ventilator takes over and delivers the preset percentage of oxygen and volume. AC 12 means the patient is getting 12 breaths per minute.   
> \- “PEEP” stands for “positive end expiratory pressure.” It is a ventilator setting that gives a patient some positive pressure on each exhalation, so that the alveoli (the grape-like air sacs at the bottom of the lungs that allow for gas exchange) remain open, rather than collapse.


End file.
